A Mirror Without
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: Drawn into a deeper plot to stop Moriarty, Sherlock sets a risky trap to force his nemesis out into the open. [warning for implied non-con]
1. Chapter 1

**Warning:** This story contains implied rape. Nothing graphic, and neither Sherlock nor John are the target.

I owe a huge thanks to mustangwoman for suggesting I do something more with Sam. I didn't expect it to turn out quite this way, and I am incredibly happy with it. _Thank you._

* * *

The livingroom was a disaster. Most of the flat was. Equipment for all manner of experiments was strewn about, as well as books, old newspapers that had earned a panicked "don't touch those!" when John had attempted to recycle them, and several mysterious vials the doctor suspected were biohazardous and didn't want to handle. He felt as if he'd walked into an explosion on some science fiction set, but when he tried to tidy, Sherlock got antsy and followed him around, taking things back down from where John put them away.

John had declared the bedroom off limits, so Sherlock had shunted the mess to the spare bedroom upstairs, the one that had been John's a little less than two years previous. John learned where to step and not to step, so he could now trace a hazard-free path to the loo in the middle of the night. He still had a fading bruise on one shin from something in the hallway that he'd never identified. It was gone the next morning before he got up and Sherlock wouldn't answer any questions about it. He was very generous at providing ice packs for the bruise, though, as well as at least one sympathetic look.

John took what he could get.

He wished Lestrade would call. He toyed with the idea of calling the detective inspector himself and pleading – it was almost to the point of pleading. Sherlock was very clearly getting bored; he wasn't shooting holes in the wall anymore, because he'd given that up some time ago. Now he relied on John as a source of boredom relief, which was generally fine with the doctor, but not when he was at work.

Whatever toys – although John never called them toys aloud – Sherlock needed were therefore tolerated.

Except that, for the past couple of days, when John came home, the mess was clearly untouched, because nothing had been moved, discarded, or set on fire, and Sherlock was perched in a chair, intent on his laptop. John had no idea what Sherlock was working on, because his husband evaded any questions, and John knew better than to press for details. Eventually, Sherlock would start to want to tell him, and if John held out long enough, he'd get all of the information he wanted when Sherlock solved whatever little puzzle he was sorting through and needed desperately explain it to someone.

The day that happened, John came home and wished their flat had some kind of air conditioning. It was stifling outside in the August heat, but nothing compared to the oppression inside the Baker Street flat. Sherlock's curls were matted to his forehead, but otherwise, he didn't seem to notice. He was wearing a dark t-shirt that John was certain belonged to him, because it was slightly too big for the lanky detective, and jeans. John loved when Sherlock wore jeans, and said so as much as possible. The fact that his husband was wearing them meant that Sherlock specifically wanted John to be distracted by how he looked.

John wondered about his mental stability that he could tell that. Three years ago, even two, would he have thought that? But then, even two years ago, Sherlock had still been just his flatmate and his clothing had made no difference.

"Look at this," he ordered as soon as John was through the door and spun his laptop round toward the doctor. John signalled for him to wait and Sherlock made an impatient noise, so the doctor took his time removing his shoes.

"I need to change and shower," he said.

"This is important!" Sherlock said.

"We need to buy a fan, or an air conditioning unit," John said, pretending not to have heard. "It's terrible in here."

Sherlock stared at him, then gave a hearty huff. John grinned, crossing the livingroom.

"Hello, John, nice to see you," he said. "Have a good day, then? I missed you. How about dinner out, so we can sit somewhere cool?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, absently brushing his damp hair from his forehead.

"Yes, all those things, but look," he tapped the laptop impatiently with a long index finger.

John sighed and kissed Sherlock quickly, then looked at the screen.

A police record stared back at him. Not an arrest record, but a personnel file. The kind that was highly confidential, and difficult to obtain. At least, difficult for most people. John closed his eyes momentarily, as if being unable to see the file might make him less complicit in this.

The picture of a young constable grinned back at him. John recognized Sam Waters, or, as he'd begun to call him, "that constable you fancy", whenever he came up in conversation, which admittedly wasn't very often. The bulky nickname drove Sherlock crazy, which made John use it all the more. He wasn't really worried about it, but he enjoyed seeing Sherlock ply him with reassurances. Sometimes, you took your fun where you found it.

"Sherlock, why've you got Sam Waters' file? Do I even want to know?"

"Read it," Sherlock insisted.

Reluctantly, John did so. It wasn't all that revealing, thankfully. Samuel Carroll Waters, age twenty-five, born June third, 1987, in Birmingham to Eugenie Carroll Waters and Samuel Henry Waters. It had his address, his private phone number, emergency contacts, all the usual information.

John gave Sherlock a look, but Sherlock returned it with a Look, and John sighed and kept reading. This was the full file, listing everything Waters had done that was pertinent to the police; his training records and graduation information, arrest records, his court appearances, his transfer from the Westminster area station to New Scotland Yard in late April of 2010, the names and ID numbers of his police partners, commendations and notes, etc. John felt like he was violating the younger man's privacy, which, point in fact, he was. This information wasn't supposed to get out to just anyone, and John knew Lestrade would probably have a coronary if he found out Sherlock had accessed it.

"All right, yes," John said. "I've read it."

Sherlock was practically vibrating with excitement.

"And?" he pressed.

"And?" John asked. "And nothing. It looks fine to me. Normal, I would imagine, for a bobby his age."

Sherlock gave a disgusted sigh, accompanied by a pointed look that John had long ago grown used to.

"Don't you see any mistakes?" he asked, gesturing impatiently at the screen.

John shook his head.

"No," he said. "But this is the first – and _only_ – police personnel file I've ever read."

Sherlock blinked.

"You've not read mine? I'll make sure to get it for you."

"Sherlock, I don't want-" John started and then gave up with a sigh. "Right, just tell me. What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing!" Sherlock said triumphantly.

John blinked, then pinched the bridge of his nose.

"So you hacked into his personnel file, stole police property, invaded his privacy, for nothing?"

"No, John, not for nothing. _Nothing_ is wrong with the file. That's what's wrong with it. Don't you see? Data entry people make mistakes – lack of attention, errors in transcription, typos, et cetera. Your service file is full of small errors, nothing that would be worth correcting, you see? The wrong time jotted down here, the name of your platoon misspelled there, all mistakes that don't matter."

"Wait, back up," John said sharply. "You have my service records? How the bloody hell did you get my service records? And since when?"

Sherlock gave him another long look, grey eyes cool.

"Since three days after I met you. It wasn't difficult. Well, a bit of a challenge, since it took three days, but admittedly we were working a case, so I couldn't put as much time into it as needed."

John groaned, sinking onto the arm of the couch.

"Sherlock, if the army ever found out-"

"They won't," Sherlock assured him with unflappable certainty. John let out a sigh, but had to admit to himself that his husband was undoubtedly right – first, Sherlock knew how to cover his tracks, second, he'd had the file for almost three years now, and they hadn't caught on.

"So Sam Waters' file is fine," he said, waving a hand vaguely. "Someone paid more attention doing the work. It wasn't Friday afternoon when it was updated. What of it?"

"It's not just one person, John, it's many people. Someone _would_ make a mistake. Which means someone is doing a very good job making sure that it's flawless."

"And who would do that?" John asked, starting to feel a little slighted at how much attention Sam Waters was drawing from Sherlock. Then he reminded himself the detective had stolen his army service records. Was it insane that he even considered that to be somewhat romantic? Probably, he decided. "And why? He's just a police constable."

"I don't know yet," Sherlock replied. "But look at when he was transferred into the Yard."

"Yes, I saw," John replied. "What of it?"

"Two weeks after The Pool."

John wondered if it was a bad sign that so many of the events in Sherlock's professional life ended up as capitalized titles in both of their minds. He frowned; he did not like to think about The Pool. Having a bomb strapped to you was not a happy memory. He'd seen more than one person go out that way in Afghanistan.

"So?" John said. "How many others were transferred in during that time?"

"I checked," Sherlock said promptly and ignored John's muttered "of course you did" reply. "Three others to Lestrade's command."

"And are they on your watch list, too?" John asked dryly.

"No, I checked and their files are normal," Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock, it's a coincidence. Officers get moved between boroughs all the time. Especially junior ones like him. Lestrade has a lot of people working for him, including a file-thieving consulting detective, I might add. He'd have your head if he ever realized you'd done this."

Sherlock ignored that.

"A man walks down a London street and bumps into a woman he went to school with in his childhood in another part of the country. That's a coincidence," Sherlock said. "A doctor returns from Afghanistan and wants to move to the city, but can't afford to. He meets up with a friend who has another friend who is looking for a flatmate, in said city. _That's_ a coincidence."

John rolled his eyes, but privately thought it was one of the best coincidences that had happened to him.

"Life is made up of coincidences," Sherlock continued. "There are too many people in the world for it not to be. But this isn't."

"And why not?" John asked.

"Have you not been paying attention? A young man with a perfect file – not a perfect record, mind you, but close to – is transferred in to Lestrade's command within two weeks of the incident at the pool with Moriarty."

John crossed his arms and leaned forward somewhat.

"You're reading far too much into this," he said. "You're starting to sound like your brother." He ignored the look of displeasure that crossed Sherlock's face at that.

"He dyes his hair," Sherlock said.

"What? Mycroft?"

"Sam Waters, John!" Sherlock admonished. "He smells of shampoo designed for hair that's chemically treated, which means he takes care of it, but he never has naturally coloured roots exposed, nor does he had dye patches on his scalp, which means it's professionally done. His skin tone is also a shade too fair for the colour of his hair. Men with dark hair and pale skin usually have very visible five-o'clock shadow, but he doesn't, suggesting his facial hair is lighter, and therefore the rest of his hair is, too. Granted, most men have facial hair a slightly different shade than the hair on their heads, but not so drastic, particularly men with dark hair."

"You're smelling his hair?" John said, getting hung up on what he considered the important point.

"No, of course not," Sherlock said. "I can smell his shampoo when he goes by. We do work together, you know."

"So maybe he's going grey early," John sighed.

"He's not a vain man by other standards," Sherlock continued, shaking his head. "He uses expensive shampoo, but not conditioner – his scalp is dry – and cheap soap. He doesn't wear cologne, either."

John sighed again.

"Maybe he has a girlfriend who likes his hair darker."

"No girlfriend, or boyfriend, either. He's bisexual." At this, John raised an eyebrow. "No cologne. Nothing that is targeted specifically at one sex. And he interacts with men and women in a very similar manner. Single, but either unhappy about it, or unwilling to change it, because he makes no effort to alter his smell. Nor does he ever smell like anyone else, so no partner. No different deodorant or shampoo or even a touch of perfume. I smell like you, and you like me, because at very least we share the same bed, even if we weren't to touch or share clothing." As if to bring home his point, he tugged lightly on the shirt of John's that he was wearing. "So his hair is unexplained."

"You're not convincing me," John said.

"Also, his file's been altered."

At this, John started.

"What?"

"I did some more digging – you really didn't think it took me three days to access his file, did you? You can't tell on first blush, or even second or third, but it's there. I can't tell what information has been changed, because whoever is doing this is very good at covering their tracks. Here, look."

John looked, and Sherlock tried to explain, but gave up in the face of John's blank incomprehension. Medicine and all of its workings made sense, but he left the tech – and the insane ability for detail and pattern recognition – to his husband. But he had to admit Sherlock had a more convincing case being able to identify unknown alterations to Waters' file.

"So maybe he's undercover, or has been," John suggested.

"My thoughts exactly," Sherlock said. "But I should have been able to access that information as well."

John groaned again, dropping his head into his hands.

"What?" Sherlock asked. "It's not as though I'd do anything with it."

John only shook his head, heaving a sigh. Sherlock ignored him and picked up his phone, darting off a quick text message.

"And what was that?" John asked.

"For Mycroft," Sherlock replied with an evil glint in his eye. "If he put Waters there, then he'll pull him out now that he knows I'm onto him. If not, he can give us information."

"_Us_?" John asked.

"Of course," Sherlock said, looking somewhat puzzled. "Why not?"

John's lips twitched wryly and he gestured vaguely at the screen, then ran a hand over his mouth. Waters smiled brightly from his photo and John fought off a scowl. The young man was certainly striking, with an unusual combination of dark hair and green eyes. It seemed like a mix of coastal Irish and inland Scottish, only he was from the middle of England.

Sherlock glanced at the file, then back at John. He tilted his head slightly and then his grey eyes lit up, followed by a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. John felt himself redden slightly, against his will.

"John, are you jealous?" Sherlock asked slyly.

"No!" John protested. "I just don't think you should meddle with police files!"

Sherlock grinned wickedly and snapped the laptop shut without ever taking his eyes from his husband. He rose, stepping over to John, looking down at him with unconcealed amusement.

"You are," he said, his grin spreading.

"No," John protested again.

"Yes," Sherlock said, leaning down, putting his hands on the arm of the couch on either side of John. He closed the distance between them so that John could feel Sherlock's warm breath on his lips, see the small beads of sweat that clung to his forehead. He leaned forward in reply, almost groaning when Sherlock pulled back.

"John is jealous," Sherlock murmured, then bent in again, catching John's lips with his own, nipping John's lower lip lightly and chuckling at the response it elicited. "Let's see what we can do about that, shall we?"


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft Holmes pressed the buzzer for his brother's flat and waited. Then pressed it again, more insistently.

After a moment, he heard a clatter on the stairs; that was Sherlock, not John, because John was never so noisy on the stairs. That meant that his brother's leg was no longer giving him trouble, so he was sleeping better, which meant in turn that he was having fewer or no nightmares and that things were more or less back to normal.

As normal as they got with Sherlock.

And since the younger Holmes had gone back to normal, that meant not responding to Mycroft's queries about how his life was, and leaving Mycroft to deduce the state of affairs on his own, or with information from John, which was also in much shorter supply now. Ever since The Shooting – and the events immediately afterwards – John was considerably more reluctant to speak about his husband to Mycroft.

Sherlock had also drawn new lines that Mycroft was genuinely attempting to respect, now that he could see that John was not transient in Sherlock's life and that the marriage had more than a passing shot at succeeding. Not that Mycroft had any doubts about John – although he'd been surprised that a staid former army doctor would fall in love with his brother. It was Sherlock who astonished him, for so many reasons. Mycroft was fairly certain his brother had never actually been in love with anyone before, and tended to get bored with people very quickly.

He hoped that trait would hold concerning the reason he'd come that evening.

Sherlock pulled open the door and raised an eyebrow at him. Mycroft withheld a sigh. The younger man was clad only in a pair of dark blue jeans, his hair was a dishevelled mess and his eyes were bright.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked.

This time, Mycroft allowed himself to sigh out loud.

"May I come in?"

Sherlock pondered it and Mycroft knew that his brother was seriously considering saying no, if only to force him to stand on the street and talk to a half naked man. But he relented, holding up a hand for Mycroft to wait a moment.

"John!" he called up the stairs. "Put on some clothes!"

Mycroft raised his eyes toward the skies above London and he heard muffled cursing coming from the flat above, then movement. Not for the first time, Mycroft wondered how John put up with some of the peculiarities of their relationship. Sherlock's last lover had been a Frenchman named Charles who had been studying at Cambridge and had what Mycroft considered a very lax attitude toward decency – he simply hadn't cared if Mycroft had shown up and found them together. Perhaps because neither Sherlock nor Charles had been interested in each other beyond a physical relationship. But at least he'd made Sherlock improve his French, which before that, had been atrocious. Mycroft had been quite glad when Charles had gone back to France, and Sherlock had never mentioned him or communicated with him after that, as far as Mycroft knew. And he had certainly checked. That had been almost fourteen years previous.

"Come up, then," Sherlock said and Mycroft followed him inside. Their elderly landlady, Mrs. Hudson, poked her head out from her door.

"Oh, hello, Mycroft dear, Sherlock."

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said amiably, as if he weren't half clad in her hallway. Mycroft greeted her as well, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at his brother's strange choice of living situation.

"Nice to see you visiting again, Mycroft. It's always good to have family about."

"I do try to get here more often, Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft said in a pointed way which Sherlock ignored.

"Do excuse us, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said. "Business and whatnot."

"Of course, dear," the older woman said and disappeared back into her apartment.

Mycroft followed his brother into his disastrously messy flat and found John Watson coming out of the back bedroom, easily sidestepping some pile of what appeared to be junk on first glance, adjusting a dark t-shirt he'd obviously just donned. The doctor looked somewhat embarrassed, and was a bit redder in the face than normal, but gave Mycroft a shrug. It was not as though he'd called in advance. John was a lot more modest than Sherlock, but privately, Mycroft considered that his brother could learn a thing or two from the doctor – not that he would. John was also sensitive about the scars from the wound he'd received in combat, and Mycroft could appreciate that. It would never occur to Sherlock to be sensitive about some aspect of his appearance he couldn't control, and indeed, he himself now had some smaller scars, remnants of injuries from the crash in January, on his left side near his ribs. They were smaller than John's scars, of course, but still visible.

They made Mycroft angry in a way that Sherlock would never have understood. Once, Mycroft had overheard John comment darkly to Sherlock that he, John, had a few things he wanted to do to Moriarty when he was caught. Sherlock had been surprised and when he pressed John about why, specifically, John had turned to him with disbelief and replied:

"He drove a bloody delivery van into your cab, Sherlock."

It had occurred to Sherlock to be angry that Moriarty had threatened John, but not that John might be angry about something that had happened to Sherlock. It was perhaps this incomprehension that made it so difficult for Sherlock to understand why his brother kept tabs on him.

Of course, neither Sherlock nor John had known he had been listening to that particular conversation, so he refrained from mentioning it.

"Anything to drink, Mycroft?" John offered as the older man shut the door.

"No, thank you," Mycroft replied. John vanished into the kitchen and came back with a glass of water for himself, sitting down on the couch. Sherlock gestured impatiently at his brother.

"You have information for me," he said, his grey eyes bright for another reason now. He was like a child waiting for sweets or a present, Mycroft thought. Only much more dangerous, because what child would break into a police officer's record and want more from it?

John looked torn between curiosity and resignation, wanting to know, and not wanting to know at the same time. Mycroft could save him the trouble.

"No," he said, turning his gaze back to his brother. "I don't."

Sherlock blinked, then narrowed his eyes.

"You're lying," he said simply. Mycroft saw John sigh but didn't respond – he'd expected this. "If you had no information, if there was nothing else to be found, you wouldn't come round to tell me. You'd text me, then start asking me about how I'm sleeping or why I ordered atrazine."

At this, John choked on his water and sat up quickly, coughing.

"You what?" he said.

"It's not in the flat, John," Sherlock assured him.

For a moment, John looked relieved.

"It hasn't arrived yet," Sherlock added and John groaned, covering his eyes and muttering something that sounded like "I cannot bloody believe it", but Sherlock paid him no more attention.

"I didn't say there was nothing more to learn," Mycroft pointed out. "I said I have no information. And I don't. Sherlock, I was flagged the moment I entered the constable's name and locked out of my system."

Mycroft did not like the way Sherlock's eyes lit up at that. John leaned his head back with a sigh.

"I knew it!" the detective said triumphantly. "So he's not with you then."

"I don't know who he's with," Mycroft said firmly. "And I'm not about to try and find out anything more. You need to drop this."

But Sherlock wasn't listening; Mycroft could easily identify the look on his brother's face when presented with a new, and forbidden, puzzle.

"Sherlock," he said with a warning glare.

Sherlock refocused.

"What? Oh yes, of course. Drop it," he replied. He was a terrible liar, at times. From behind Sherlock, John rolled his eyes.

"I mean it," Mycroft said. "This goes far above me or anyone else I know. Whoever's protecting this Waters fellow, they have more resources to do so than I would."

Sherlock nodded.

"Absolutely," he agreed. "Won't give it another thought."

Mycroft repressed a sigh and cast a look at John for assistance. The doctor shot back a "let-me-handle-this" expression and Mycroft gave an imperceptible nod that he was certain Sherlock hadn't noticed, because the younger Holmes' gaze was turned inward. If anyone could convince Sherlock to drop this, it was John Watson. Mycroft hoped that the doctor could do this, so he wouldn't have to resort to more desperate measures. Or be subject to unannounced and unhappy visits from whomever Waters was working for. His superiors were already breathing down his neck about the system flags and lockdown; he didn't need any more trouble.

"Good," Mycroft said with a pointed look that was ignored. "See that you don't. I've got to go. Mother says hello."

"Hello, Mother," Sherlock replied obediently and automatically. Mycroft shot John another look and the doctor nodded in return. Mycroft let himself out the door, torn between wondering what was going on and not wanting to know any more about Samuel Waters.

* * *

As soon as Mycroft had shut the door behind him, John stepped over to Sherlock's laptop and put a hand on it. Sherlock spun, reaching for it, then scowled.

"John," he warned.

"No," John said.

"John!"

"No," John repeated, picking up the laptop and stepping back. Sherlock followed him and John shifted the thin computer easily so that he held it behind his back. Sherlock threw up his hands in frustration. John arched an eyebrow in reply, desperately trying to give himself a few seconds to think.

"You know I'll get it sooner or later," Sherlock pointed out. John had, in fact, realized that he could not hold onto the detective's laptop indefinitely, and even if he could, Sherlock could easily obtain another one and go back to working on the Waters puzzle.

He put the laptop down on a table behind him and stepped toward Sherlock quickly, blocking the other man's access to it. John raised his hands, settling them against Sherlock's neck and shoulders, so his fingertips were touching Sherlock's jaw.

"I'm better at this than Mycroft," Sherlock said. "If I could get access to his police file without alerting anyone, I can get access to the rest."

John didn't reply. Sherlock made a frustrated sound and tried to dodge toward the computer, but John had enough training and combat experience to read the intent in Sherlock's eyes and followed the movement easily, instinctively. Sherlock scowled at him, not really pinned, but unwilling to simply remove John's hands and step around him. John took that as a good sign that he was on the right track, but didn't count it as a victory yet.

"What if it were me?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock's grey eyes refocused on John with surprising speed and he frowned.

"What?" he asked.

"What if it were me?" John repeated. "What if someone had altered my service records to shield me from something? What if something that had happened to me required that it be covered up, erased, so that no one else would know about it, to keep me safe? Would you chase that down, Sherlock?"

"Of course not," Sherlock said quickly. "I'd just ask you."

"Right, but what if someone else wanted to know? Not someone who wanted me any harm, but who was just curious? Would you want them to do whatever it took to find the information that was hidden?"

Sherlock bit his lower lip and John knew then he'd won. It was just a matter of playing it out now. He shifted one hand so that it rested on the back of Sherlock's head, fingers laced loosely into his dark curls, stroking Sherlock's scalp gently with his thumb. Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, the expression on his face warring between exasperation and bliss.

"Not fair, Doctor Watson," he muttered.

"All's fair, as they say," John replied with a slight smile. It was one of Sherlock's favourite sensations and one John had quickly figured out would get him to listen to what the doctor consider reason. Unfortunately, it was not something he could use anywhere outside the privacy of their home, since he was not about to alert anyone else to this. He knew that Sherlock would consider it a weakness if anyone else knew, and John needed something that he could resort to in a pinch. It would also be unprofessional to do that to Sherlock on the job. And generally, John could talk Sherlock round to his point of view if the detective truly knew John was being reasonable.

"Someone is trying very hard to protect Sam Waters from something," John said. "Which means someone cares for him, too. Let them do their job."

"I've no intention of hurting him," Sherlock said.

"What if looking alone is enough to do that?" John replied. "Would you take that risk, if it were me?"

Sherlock didn't open his eyes, but John could see a flash of memory across his face. Mike Merkley. If he hadn't been at the crash, if he hadn't seen James Moriarty and enlisted his help trying to free the victims in the other cab, he would still be alive. He'd had his wife and son stolen, and then his life, because of what Moriarty considered a game. The crash itself had been just a game, one that had in and of itself claimed four lives.

Sherlock huffed, eyes still closed, but his expression cleared somewhat.

"You never let me have any fun," he complained, but it was hollow. John grinned.

"Oh, really?" he asked.

"Yes, really," Sherlock said, but opened one eye a crack, sizing John up.

John leaned in so that their faces were almost touching and he could feel the twitch of Sherlock's lips against his own skin as the younger man tried to repress a smile.

"Must be terribly dull," John said.

"You've no idea," Sherlock replied.

"None," John agreed. "Certainly, before your brother interrupted us, we weren't about to have any fun whatsoever. This is the dullest flat in London, I agree."

Sherlock sighed dramatically, but his lips twitched upward again. He opened his eyes, meeting John's brown-eyed gaze, and settled his hands on the doctor's waist. John felt a shiver run down Sherlock's back when he let his free hand trace down his husband's spine. He enjoyed the quiet gasp and flutter of eyelashes that resulted from it, and caught Sherlock's lips in a light kiss.

"I could think of a thing or two to spice it up here," Sherlock said, his breath warm against John's cheek.

John grinned.

"Can you?" he asked. "Well, I've already got my own plans. We'll just have to see if we have time for yours, too."


	3. Chapter 3

August faded and with it went the heat, turning into cooler September temperatures. Schools started up again and John began the usual fall routine of dealing with colds that didn't really need a doctor's visit, but it was difficult to argue with parents sometimes, particularly when their child's health was concerned. He counselled patience for the most part, which he knew from experience was not an easy course to take.

Sherlock caught a cold, probably from something John had brought home but that the doctor himself hadn't succumbed to. The detective moaned about the flat, being a general nuisance, acting as though he were going to die, until John reminded him that he'd survived much worse than this, and recently, and that a cold was scarcely fatal. Sherlock took to the couch and sulked, surrounded by tissue boxes and throat lozenges. John finally took pity on him and made him soup and tea, and rang Lestrade, asking for some more cold cases to be sent over. The detective inspector complied and John consented to snuggle with Sherlock on the couch while the younger man pored through some of the files. He was hard pressed not to snicker when Sherlock dozed off in the middle of reading, his head slumping on John's chest, his lips parted so he could breathe since his nose was too stuffed up. John enjoyed the sensation though, and at least Sherlock couldn't complain when he was asleep.

Sherlock got over the cold and John welcomed back a friend from Afghanistan, Tricia Remsen, another doctor he'd worked with. She wasn't the first to come back to England after he'd been sent home, but the one he'd been looking forward to the most. He had been antsy about it in the weeks leading up to her return, but didn't want to mention it, worried he might jinx it somehow. He'd had more than one colleague or friend return in a coffin, or less than whole. But Tricia had simply been there one day, grinning at him ear to ear, blue eyes bright, calling him "Johnny", which she knew drove him mad, and eyeing Sherlock very appreciatively before congratulating John on such a catch. John enjoyed seeing his husband so discomfited; he usually didn't pay much attention to women and was not at all used to such frank admiration from them, although John suspected if he had ever been inclined to look, he'd find it a lot more often.

She settled into a job in a maternity hospital, saying she was tired of seeing young people die and would much rather see people being born. John was glad to have her in the city, since many of those who came back drifted back to their old homes, but Tricia had been born and raised in London. She insisted on seeing his shoulder, admonished him for having it injured a second time, then charged Sherlock with ensuring that John "bloody well keep doing his physio stretches, even if he says he feels fine". Briefly, but not seriously, John worried he was losing an ally to his husband's camp. Sherlock seemed to like her, which pleased John; the man needed more friends. And Tricia was not bothered by the possibility that someone may be more intelligent than she. John knew full well that kind of attitude, that defensiveness, was what set Sherlock off. It fairly radiated from people like Anderson and Donovan.

For a few short weeks, John actually felt like he was leading a normal life. He even thought that Sherlock was starting to lose interest in the Sam Waters puzzle. Not forget about it completely, but at least letting it die down in his mind.

Then a well-connected banker died, under circumstances that Lestrade said looked simple but smelled bad, and Sherlock went back to work.

John resigned himself to the madness that ensued, including being dragged to and fro across London, phone calls at all hours from his husband, and losing his bedmate, at least for a few days. When Sherlock was at home at night, he was either working or too wound up to sleep, so John kicked him out of the bed and tried to ignore the sounds of his husband prowling about the flat, searching for a physical outlet for the manic energy in his mind.

One evening, a Saturday, Sherlock rang to tell him they'd got it – one of the old man's sons-in-law, an anaesthesiologist, who had used carbon monoxide to make it look like a natural death. John was disgusted – he wasn't shocked that someone in the medical profession would be so callous, but it was still disappointing, and anaesthesiologists were always in short supply. Losing one was always a blow. But he was glad the case had been wrapped up and Sherlock was on his way home. John was let down a few minutes later when Sherlock texted him to say that Mycroft had sent a car for him, for whatever reason his brother deemed it necessary to see him. John wished Mycroft would learn the value of an appointments calendar, or at least call ahead. He disliked the disruption, and made a mental note to tell Sherlock to refuse any unannounced visits from now on. He was certain that would make Sherlock happy, too.

He went out to a pub with Tricia and some other bloke she knew, whom she may or may not have been dating. John wasn't certain, because when he asked her about it, she confessed to being unsure herself. It was difficult, they had both agreed, to get back into the pace of regular life, but John thought Henry seemed a decent enough fellow, if a bit dull. But he also suspected his own perceptions were skewed now by almost two years of having been in a relationship with Sherlock.

When he arrived home shortly before midnight, Sherlock still wasn't home, and John muttered darkly to himself about Mycroft's habits. He changed and went to bed, wishing he weren't alone, but fell asleep nonetheless.

Around five in the morning, he woke up unexpectedly, then realized that the chill in the bed beside him was what had disturbed him. John sat up, blinking away sleep, and then listened for any signs of movement in the flat. Hearing nothing, he got up and put on his old bathrobe that Sherlock had somehow inherited. It smelled like the detective, and that was comforting. John padded out into the livingroom, which was silent and dark, then checked the bathroom, then the upstairs bedroom. He was alone, which annoyed him.

He went back to the bedroom and dialled up Mycroft's number. One of his people answered.

"John Watson for Mycroft," the doctor said.

"Just a moment, Doctor Watson," was the reply. It irritated John that they all knew who he was, but he didn't know who any of them were. Vaguely, he wondered if there were eyes on his flat tonight.

A minute or so later, Mycroft was on the line.

"John, what is it?" he asked, sounding concerned and not at all tired. Did the man ever sleep? Knowing his brother, probably not.

"Would you be so good as to return my husband now?" John snapped.

There was a pause.

"What do you mean?"

"What do you mean, what do I mean? It's five in the bleeding morning, Mycroft. Send him home."

"Why do you think he's here?"

"Because he texted me to tell me you'd sent someone round to get him and wanted to see him."

Another pause, and John was starting to feel a heavy weight settling into his stomach.

"No," Mycroft said carefully. "I did not."

John's free hand closed into a fist on the sheets.

"Then where is he?" he asked, knowing it was a useless question – if Mycroft didn't know, it was not a good sign. He was suddenly aware of how still it was in the flat, how dark, and how lonely.

"I don't know," Mycroft said. "But I'll find out."

John closed his eyes, fighting off a stab of fear. A sudden noise from outside the room made him start, then he placed the sound as a key turning in the lock.

"Just a moment," he hissed into the phone and crossed the bedroom quickly, standing with his back against the wall by the door, lowering the phone so he could concentrate on the sound in the livingroom. The door eased open and then shut, and the lock was thrown back into place. John could hear Mycroft's voice faintly on the other end of the line, but ignored it. The shuffling from the livingroom sounded familiar and John let out a deep breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, then made a more audible noise. He heard a pause, then Sherlock's voice calling his name quietly.

"Nevermind," John said, raising the phone again and cutting Mycroft off in mid-question. "He just got in." He hung up without preamble and went into the livingroom, where Sherlock had turned on one lamp on its lowest setting and was shucking his coat. John thought he'd never been quite so relieved to see Sherlock just standing there. Before he could say anything, Sherlock held up both hands as if to ward off any attacks. He was moving stiffly; his leg was bothering him, which meant he was in need of sleep.

"I'm sorry," he said, which made John pause, because those certainly weren't words he heard very often. "I did think it was Mycroft. I wasn't lying to you."

John let out another deep breath, slow and controlled. He inhaled and caught something, a quick whiff of an acrid tang that snagged in his throat. Sherlock must have seen the expression on John's face, because he shook his head.

"It wasn't me," he assured John, unlocking and opening the door again and unceremoniously dumping his coat, which smelled of cigarette smoke, into the landing. John managed to nod.

"Are you all right?" he asked, picking the one question that was not accusatory from all of the ones that lined up on his tongue. Sherlock nodded, looking tired and worn.

"I am," he answered in a way that made John believe it. "I'll tell you what happened, but you won't like it."

* * *

Lestrade let him go early enough that he could avoid paperwork and likely be home in time to enjoy dinner with John, if not at least a drink. A pub, he thought, would be nice. He was going to need sleep; his body had its own opinions about that, which had been ignored for the past several days but were ready to pounce. The twinges in his lower leg were more insistent now. He'd asked John once how long it would take for this to go away, and hadn't like the doctor's reply. Even a break, not a soft tissue injury, could be sensitive for the rest of his life. Sherlock was not at all pleased by the prospect of carrying this reminder of Moriarty with him.

When he left the Yard into the cool September evening, it was already almost dark and the city was lighting up with its myriad street lamps, signs, and vehicle headlights. Sherlock glanced at his watch and wondered about catching a cab at this hour, or if he should take the tube. He pulled his phone out of his coat pocket to check the traffic reports and the Underground status, but was forestalled when he saw a dark car pulled up in front of the station. A woman about his age, perhaps a year or two older, was waiting outside the vehicle, wrapped in a black trench coat that fell to mid-thigh, a black skirt, and black heels. Her hair, equally as dark, particularly in the night, gleamed in the reflection of the street lamps. She watched him impassively and Sherlock repressed a growl, approaching her.

"Your brother would like to see you," she said in a smooth voice with subtle French accent. Sherlock glowered at her, shaking his head.

"I didn't know my brother was employing French citizens now," he commented.

"Yes, well," she said, as if that explained anything. Sherlock let out an abrupt sigh, considering his options. He hated it when Mycroft did this, but he had to admit, it happened less often now and usually Mycroft had good reason. Although Sherlock would never had said so to his brother.

For a moment, he thought perhaps something had happened to John, but no, he'd just spoken to his husband moments ago, having hung up on his way out of the building. If something had happened, and Mycroft had found out and had someone here within the space of a few heartbeats, Sherlock was not giving him enough credit.

"Right then," he said, unlocking his phone and sending John a quick text message to alert him that he would be late. He knew John would be disappointed, but the following day was Sunday, which John always had off, and now Sherlock did, too. The thought of lying in bed all day was appealing.

He followed the woman into the car and settled into the back seat beside her. She seemed unconcerned by his presence. Sherlock had always found women somewhat baffling; Molly's attention had gone unnoticed, but he had been saddened when she died, not least because of the circumstances. Tricia Remsen, John's old friend, enjoyed teasing him and seemed to genuinely appreciate his company, which was not common for Sherlock. This woman seemed bored, and he wondered if it was a disaffected attitude she was adopting, or if she disliked being Mycroft's errand girl, fetching his errant younger brother for him.

The car pulled out smoothly, the driver's face obscured by shadows, his presence removed from them by smoky glass.

The French woman lit a cigarette.

Sherlock stiffened without intending to and she misread his movement, perhaps deliberately.

"Would you like one?" she enquired.

"Always," Sherlock said. "But no. It's been three years."

She nodded vaguely, as if this information didn't matter, and did not put it out. They drove for ten minutes in silence, Sherlock keeping close track of where they were. In that time, she smoked two cigarettes, but he wasn't certain how, because she seemed to do so languidly, as if this also bored her.

They stopped abruptly on a side street just south of Burgess Park. Sherlock wondered why the cloak and dagger. Usually when Mycroft wanted to see him, he was taken to his brother's place or he visited the Baker Street Flat.

"Other side of the street, three cars down. He's waiting," she commented in the same bored, smooth tone. Sherlock got out quickly, taking a deep breath of the cool night air, both relieved and regretful to be out of the cigarette smoke. He was going to charge Mycroft to dry clean the jacket, because the smell was going to drive him mad, and John was going to have a fit.

He followed the woman's direction and found the car. Another driver stepped out smoothly and opened the back door for him. Sherlock shifted himself inside, keeping a wince to himself as his leg protested again. The driver closed the door noiselessly and got back in and Sherlock turned to see a man who was most definitely not Mycroft.

The younger man leaned forward, green eyes glinting momentarily in the light from a street lamp above. Sherlock noted the other car passing them down the street and then their car began to move, heading south.

Sam Waters looked different and smelled different. Rigid, more tense. Sherlock picked up the subtle scent of sweat; the man was not at all at ease, which was worrying. Each time Sherlock had seen him at the Yard after Mycroft had told him to stand down, the young constable had seemed utterly normal. Sherlock considered that Sam was an extremely gifted actor and was probably wasted in police life. He had missed his calling on the stage. But now that mask had dropped away somewhat, although the younger man's voice held steady when he spoke.

"Detective Holmes, I am sorry about this," he said. A small smile touched his lips. "You've upset quite a lot of people, accessing my file the way you did and having your brother check up on me. I've been wanting to speak to you for a while, but it took longer than I thought to get permission. And I apologize for the accommodations, I know they aren't the best, but they're the safest for me. If you give me some time, I can explain."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: **Warning!** Here's where it starts to get dark. If you don't like it, just turn round and head back to the more fun chapters. "Fairly warned be thee, says I."

* * *

"There are certain things I won't be able to tell you," Sam continued as the car made its way through the London traffic. The constable glanced out the window, and then back. "Understand, it isn't because I don't want to, but because I'm not allowed to."

Sherlock stayed silent for a moment, considering his new situation. He did not believe himself to be in any danger, and he suspected Sam Waters would return him to his flat if he so much as asked, but that would be giving up a golden opportunity, one that even Mycroft couldn't access. He still had his phone, and it was on, so he drew it out and rested it on his thigh. Sam noted the movement with his eyes, but didn't say anything.

"Who was the woman?" Sherlock enquired.

Sam chuckled softly.

"Veronique," he said. No surname. At least, none provided. "I apologize on her behalf; she is not overly fond of this country, but tolerates it for my sake. And she was very upset when you accessed my file, particularly because it took four days for anyone to figure it out."

Sherlock withheld comment, but wondered if he hadn't alerted Mycroft, if anyone would ever have known.

"Why for your sake?" he asked. Certainly, she and Sam couldn't be lovers or even particularly close; he never smelled of cigarette smoke. Sherlock would have noticed that immediately, if only for the cravings it would have given him.

"She's my handler," Sam replied. He wrinkled his nose somewhat. "And I see she was smoking." He chuckled then, green eyes sparkling. "You really pissed her off, then, detective. She only really does that when she's upset. Mind you, I think she considers being in England reason enough to be upset."

"You're undercover," Sherlock said.

"In a manner of speaking," Sam agreed.

"What manner?" Sherlock pressed. "Who are you, really? Who are you with?"

Sam held up a hand, as if indicating that he could only take one question at a time. The car slowed to a stop briefly for a traffic light, then sped up again after a short wait.

"You need to understand, I really am Sam Waters," he replied. "I'm a constable with the London Metro Police."

"Bollocks," Sherlock replied. Sam chuckled again. "No constable needs a handler, particularly not a French one."

"No, that's true," Sam agreed. "But Sam Waters is a Metro police officer. That's all there is to him, do you understand? Young, but moving up in his career. He got where he is because he worked hard and he shows promise. Maybe one day he'll make sergeant, who knows?" He shrugged, as if this were inconsequential. "Certainly he has no designs on being a detective, but if he keeps up the way he is, when he's old enough, he'll be in command in some form."

He paused, rubbing his hands together absently and Sherlock waited, letting the silence grow. The atmosphere in the car had shifted; Sam was no longer smiling or chuckling and his gaze had turned inward. He made a fist with his right hand and pressed it into the palm of his left, as if grounding himself in something physical, or displacing some old pain. Sherlock stretched his left leg gently, trying to relieve some of the dull ache. They were paralleling the river now, heading east toward Greenwich.

"When I was twenty, I'd been on the job for a little over a year," he finally said, and his voice was distant, looking back into memory. "I can't tell you where, and even with some of the details, it will take you some time to find it. Not that I don't expect you to try, or succeed, you understand. Although-" he paused and met Sherlock's gaze again, lips twitching wryly. "I'd prefer it if you didn't; it would save me inhaling more of Veronique's smoke."

He sighed and looked away a moment and Sherlock was struck, and momentarily distracted, by his profile in the lights from the street lamps. Sam Waters, as Sherlock had known him up until that evening, had always appeared young and unconcerned, but now there were shadows in his eyes, similar to those Sherlock had sometimes seen in John's expression when the doctor spoke of Afghanistan and some of the things he'd seen there. It made Sam look somehow breakable. Sherlock had seen that before, on many people, because there was almost always something that could be used as leverage to force someone wide open, to shatter them. But he had never seen it appear so quickly.

It also made him look more attractive, which was distracting and the detective reined himself in. If John knew… well, John would tease him even more, which was actually worse than anything else John could throw at him.

"My partner was local," Sam continued. "He had no idea I wasn't. No one but the top brass did, and even then, it was pretty limited. We were working on some skin traders operating out of Eastern Europe and Turkey, trying to pin them down once they got out west here. It was hard, and no one liked that a green officer my age was involved, but it wasn't direct. I was dropped into the area and ordered to keep an eye out and report back what I could. There were others, higher up, older, who were already in place. I had no idea who. There was a trail of us stretching all the way back to the old Block countries, as far as I knew. I had someone to report to, and that was it."

He paused again, leaning back in his seat, gazing out the window for a moment.

"Just watch and wait," he said after a minute. "We patrolled our beat, which was pretty bad, lots of smaller scale drug trafficking, local prostitution, blue collar stuff. Lots of domestics. It was depressing. I wished to hell they'd just hurry us up, but it was slow going; informants were hard to come by, especially since we generally couldn't use women with these people. They'd get swallowed up and shipped into exactly the kind of conditions we were trying to prevent.

"One day, we got a break-and-enter call for a local warehouse. Abandoned, like pretty much everything there, because the economy was in the tank and had been since – forever it felt like. I don't know. Before my time. So we went to check it out, called for some back up when we arrived just in case, but we both thought it would be kids – teenagers who used these places all the time for parties, to get high, whatever. Probably more trouble than it was worth for us to bust them up, but someone did own the building and paid for a security system."

Sam stopped talking again, taking a deep breath, resting his forehead in his right hand. Sherlock watched, waiting. He had the sense the younger man had told this story many times before, but never to someone not directly related to his work. He watched for signs that the younger man's hands were shaking, the PTSD indicators John had never exhibited, because John had never had it. But Sam's hands were steady as well, even if the breath he exhaled wasn't.

He glanced over at Sherlock and gave a mirthless laugh.

"It was two of the men we were looking for. Right there. They had two girls with them, Polish I think, I couldn't tell, but that's what it sounded like. My partner had gone in first and I'd hung back, just out of sight, just in case." He closed his eyes.

"They shot him. Just shot him. Right here," he tapped his forehead, then opened his eyes. "I was close enough that it hit me. Not the bullet. The blood. I couldn't see, but I fired back. Didn't even think about it, because I couldn't at that point. I hit someone, because I heard yelling and screaming. The screaming was the girls, but I could tell it wasn't them. The man I'd hit, I hadn't hit well, because he was still conscious and cursing."

He looked out the window toward the river as they headed toward the Blackwall Tunnel. London faded from around them as they were swallowed up by the passage under the river.

"I remember reaching up to wipe off the blood from my face and ducking behind something, I don't know what. Crates? Pallets? I heard one of them say 'Jesus Christ, you just shot a cop!' and then laughter. I had no idea how many there were; I could hear two, and the girls, but who knows? It was a big place. I tried to remember when we'd called for back up, figure out how long we'd been in there. Then I heard sirens. It was like manna from heaven. I thought if I could just stay down, I could get through it. I heard one of them, the same one who had made the comment about shooting the cop, say that they had to get out. The girls were still screaming, and my partner's body was bleeding all over the concrete.

"I realized I couldn't let them get away with the girls – that was precisely why I'd been put there. Yes, it wasn't supposed to be me that brought them in, but it was me, I was there, and they had god only knows how many girls stashed in that warehouse. I remember listening, trying to figure out where they were, then pushing my back against the crates so I could stand with some cover.

"And then – then there was a gun at my throat. Right here." He tapped his right index and middle fingers against the pulse on his throat, then rubbed his forehead with a quick, agitated movement.

"I'd heard people say that time seems to slow down right before you think you're going to die, but I'd never really believed it. I did then. Everything just jumped into sharp detail; the dust in the air, the smell of my partner's blood, the texture of the light and the shadows, the differences in pitches in the girls' voices. There was a hand in my hair, pulling my head back."

Sam made a fist with his left hand, holding it near his temple.

"And it's funny, what I remember. I could tell the bloke was wearing gloves, he was gripping too much of my hair not to be. And it hurt, but on my scalp, you understand. He wasn't pulling so far back that he was hyper extending my neck muscles. Almost like he was trying to be careful.

"And my first thought wasn't 'bloody hell, I'm going to die'. It was something like 'two dead cops, they will crucify these bastards when they catch them'. For a second, I wasn't even scared, because it didn't seem real. Then, then I realized that was it. I can still remember the beams in the warehouse, because I was looking up now, not by choice. I remember thinking, that's the last thing I'll see. Those beams. They were so dusty."

Sam stopped again and was silent for long minutes. They were heading north now, near the Limehouse cut. The traffic was somewhat lighter.

"The one holding me, he said that he'd gotten the other one. One of the others told him to finish me, because they had to go, the sirens were just about on top of us at that point. I remember hoping they'd get there in time, that someone would drop this bloke from behind and he'd never know what hit him. It was so close, I could tell. He shoved the barrel of his gun into my neck and laughed, low and right in my ear. Then he said 'no, not this one, he's far too pretty. It'd be a shame to waste it.'"

Sam took a deep breath. Sherlock shifted his phone back to his pocket, shutting it off as he did so; he doubted he'd need it now, and he didn't want to interrupt the younger man. Sam watched the movement, but absently, as if not really seeing it.

"That's what really scared me. Not that I was going to die. That he was going to rape me, then kill me." He let out the deep breath slowly. "But then, one of his mates said that they didn't have time, they had to get out _now_. The one holding me, he laughed, and then kissed me. Actually kissed me. Hard. I should have bitten him, but I couldn't move, it was too quick and then there was no chance. He laughed; I must have looked terrified. I _was_ terrified. I figured he was just going to shoot me then. But he pulled my head back so I could see his eyes – couldn't tell the colour, because of the low lighting, but they were shining."

He paused, locking his gaze with Sherlock's.

"Then he said: 'Pity. But there's always tomorrow.'"

* * *

The shock was like a bolt down his spine. For a moment, there was only remembered greyness and the sound of Moriarty's voice in the MRI room, and the morphine-accentuated terror that accompanied them.

Sam nodded.

"Yes, I thought that would sound familiar," he said softly, his voice worn. "It's been seven years and I still hear that every time I go to sleep."

Sherlock's eyes refocused quickly.

"Seven years ago you were eighteen," he said.

"Seven years ago, Sam Waters would have been eighteen," Sam corrected. "I wasn't. I was twenty. And now I'm twenty-five. I gained two years back, I suppose. I also died. Not much of a bargain for me, I think. The next thing he said to me was 'good-bye, beautiful', right up against my ear, and struck me with the butt of his gun. After that, I remember nothing until I woke up in the hospital five days later. They told me they'd found two of the men we were looking for only the day before, both of them shot and dumped. We hadn't caught them – _he_ had disposed of them when they were no longer necessary, or too much of a risk. They told me I'd died, too. I was out of commission for two years, because I couldn't sleep through the night."

He smiled wanly, but there was no humour in it.

"I don't remember the first couple of months very well, but Veronique told me they were the worst. I'd wake up screaming every night, because I thought was covered in blood. I thought that was it, I was never coming back. He'd killed me and I was still breathing. I wished he had actually killed me, saved me the trouble. But then it started improving, but degrees. Then, one day, it wasn't fear anymore, it was anger, but directed, you understand. Not just rage, not something that would switch back into fear, but something with purpose behind it. So they sent me here."

"Why would you come back to this?" Sherlock demanded. "Why would they let you?"

"Have you ever asked John why he joined the army?"

"No," Sherlock admitted. Sam spread his hands.

"You should. It's the same reason. James Moriarty is a one-man terrorist organization, all by himself. Wherever he is, whatever he's into, he's doing it because he wants to terrify people. He'd done it to me, but I didn't want him to win. And he wanted me; he made that very clear. So they started keeping an ear to the ground for him, because we'd lost his trail after that, and then he resurfaced, in London. Where I already was."

"You transferred to Scotland Yard."

"Yes. After they'd established that you were his focus. He's – intelligent would be too simple a word. What he wants from you isn't what he wants from me. I'm not that smart, nowhere near. But I am good at my job and I'm not a fool. He wants you as an opponent, but he just wants me."

Sherlock stared at Sam a moment.

"And you'd simply let him have you?"

The younger man shook his head.

"No, of course not," he said. "We were hoping to avoid it, that you'd trip him up before he ran down my location. For the first three and a half years, they kept me under tight wraps, even when I came to work in the city. Minimal contact with anyone, head down, basic beat job. They'd known enough, I'm not sure from whom, to know he was looking for me. It was me who insisted on the transfer to the Yard, to work with Lestrade. Even then, they weren't happy. They wanted me to stay out of it, to let you do it, because they'd figured out that you're probably the only person who can."

He leaned back in his seat, shaking his head.

"But after the Merkley case, we started getting pressure too. That was bad." He held up a hand, forestalling any argument. "Not your fault, that isn't what I'm saying. Not the police's fault. But still bad. So I told them, let me do to him what he does with everyone else."

"Bait," Sherlock said.

"Yes," Sam said simply. "Distraction. He can focus on both of us at the same time, but not as fully as if there were only one. Seven years he's been looking for me. It will be too much to pass up."

Sherlock wondered what John would say about this if he knew. It seemed rational to him, and may have been precisely what he was looking for. Something that James Moriarty wanted but didn't have. Something he had lost and was attempting to recover. Sherlock was certain John wouldn't see it that way, but it didn't matter.

It also removed John from some of the risk. He didn't care a whit how selfish that was; anything that decreased the threat to John was worth it. He'd be damned if he was going to see a bomb strapped to his husband again.

"He took my life even more surely than if he'd put a bullet in my skull," Sam said. "I'd like the chance to return the favour."

"What do you propose?" Sherlock asked.

"For now, nothing," Sam said. "Let him find me. We've been dropping hints where he can pick them up. It's just a matter of time."

"He will know it isn't a coincidence," Sherlock pointed out.

Sam nodded.

"I know, and that's what he needs to think. Let him believe it. Let him think this distraction is yours, not his." He paused again, regarding Sherlock wryly. "Detective, he's already killed me."

"You're too dangerous if you have a death wish," Sherlock said plainly.

"I don't," Sam replied. "Not for myself. I'm not so naïve that I think I can go back to my old life at the end of this, but I would like to stop looking over my shoulder. I'd like to take back the control he stole from me. And with him, there's only one way to do that. I know what he wants, and let it be me rather than another poor sap who has nothing to do with this."

His voice was matter-of-fact, with no hot anger, but Sherlock could see a flash of it beneath the surface in Sam's eyes. He was actually glad for that – if the man had shown absolutely no emotion, Sherlock would have had to turn him down. There was simply no way that Sam could truly feel indifferent about this, but he could have – and had – learned to control it, to channel it to something useful.

"He's run loose for far, far too long. It's time for him to start playing by our rules."

* * *

John pulled out the headphones and pressed the stop button on the tiny recorder Sam Waters had given to Sherlock to give to him. He held it up and Sherlock took it, long fingers closing momentarily over John's. He checked to see that John had run out the entire tape, the whole conversation that Sam had recorded and instructed Sherlock to play for John, adding he knew that the detective would have told his husband anyway, and this way, the doctor was getting the full story. He set the recorder on the table beside the couch so he could destroy the tape later and take apart the player before disposing of it.

When he turned back to John, his husband shifted, gathering Sherlock into his arms and more or less wrapping his whole body about the detective's. Sherlock hesitated a moment, then snaked his arms around John's waist.

"John, I am all right," he murmured.

"Yes, well, I'm not doing this for you," John replied, and his voice was tense and thick. Sherlock shifted then, pulling John closer to him, hooking one knee over one of John's, so he felt like they were joined like a puzzle. John hissed at the pressure on his left shoulder.

"Sorry," Sherlock murmured.

"It's all right," John replied. Sherlock rested his cheek carefully against John's left shoulder, listening to the sound of John's heartbeat. The doctor hadn't protested anything Sam had said yet, but Sherlock waited for it. John laced a hand into the thick curls on the back of Sherlock's head and the detective closed his eyes. The sensation awakened every nerve and relaxed every muscle in his body at the same time, making him hover somewhere between desire and ease. He knew John knew that, but wondered if John also knew that the gesture made him feel utterly safe.

They stayed that way for some minutes before John said:

"When you find him, I hope he requires you to put a bullet in his brain."

Sherlock raised his head quickly, startled, and met John's gaze. Behind the brown eyes was a John he didn't know very well, one who had mostly stayed behind in Afghanistan, but who had resurfaced occasionally. He was harder, more practical and less compassionate than the normal John. Sherlock had encountered him most recently during the Merkley case, when John had refused to go to the hospital after being attacked. He was glad this version came to the fore only infrequently, because Sherlock generally didn't know what to do with it, and Sherlock disliked not knowing what to do.

"I'm sorry," John said and the expression softened but didn't disappear. "But with him, it's the only way. Do you imagine if we sent him to prison, he'd stop, even from there?"

"Not in the least," Sherlock replied. John stroked the back of his head with his thumb and Sherlock closed his eyes again, focusing on the sensation.

"I fully intend to make it to our first anniversary," John said. "And then to the next fifty. Your young friend is right; this is the best way. Barring Moriarty just turning himself in, or saving us the trouble and throwing himself off of a bridge."

"You don't like it," Sherlock commented.

"Of course I don't like it, Sherlock," John said. "Nor do you, not really, even if you think it's best because it doesn't involve me." Sherlock opened his eyes again and John's lips twitched. "I know you well enough by now," he said. "It's a bad situation, but it was always going to be. Ever since The Pool."

"No," Sherlock said. "Long before that."

John sighed.

"True."

Sherlock lowered his head again, resting his cheek back on John's shoulder. They were both silent for another long moment, and Sherlock found himself wondering how Sam Waters dealt with any of this on his own. It difficult to imagine what it would be like to be facing Moriarty alone, without anything to back him up, and was surprised at the sensation and how deep it ran. He had told John during the Merkley case that the doctor was his strength and he had meant it, but he had not realized how much. He could picture himself on Moriarty's trail without John, but the image seemed hollow and grey, and Sherlock knew that alone, it would only be another game, which made him a pale reflection of Moriarty himself. With John, everything was brighter and so much more present.

He wondered if John had any idea.

He kissed his husband's neck and felt the muscles in his neck move as John smiled slightly.

"I love you," Sherlock murmured. He could feel the vibrations in John's vocal chords as the doctor gave a small chuckle.

"I know, Sherlock," he said, leaning down to kiss Sherlock's forehead, then tilt his head up to kiss his lips. "I love you, too."


	5. Chapter 5

"How does one go about doing this?" Sherlock asked.

"Doing what?" John replied, taking care to pause from shaving and glancing at Sherlock's reflection in the mirror. The detective was towelling off his dark hair, wrapped in John's old bathrobe.

"I've never set out to make a particular friend," Sherlock replied.

John grinned despite himself.

"You don't say," he muttered under his breath.

"I heard that," Sherlock replied. John chuckled.

"Let Waters do it," he suggested. "He _is_ the undercover – whatever he is. Agent? Cop? Regardless, this is part of his job. He'll be good at it."

Sherlock tossed the towel back over the rack and John cleared his throat pointedly. With a roll of his eyes, the younger man straightened the towel. Years of army discipline were hard to ignore, even if they were usually useless against Sherlock's idea of tidiness.

"You won't be jealous, will you?" Sherlock asked.

"Why should I be jealous? You're not going to shag him, are you?"

Sherlock's grey eyes met John's brown ones in the mirror, somewhat taken aback.

"I can hardly foresee a circumstance in which that would be necessary, John," he admonished.

"I will take that as a no," John replied, rinsing off his razor. "In which case, I will not be jealous." He sighed, straightening up and turned to face his husband, ignoring the fact that he still had shaving cream on half of his face.

"Sherlock, I am not in the least bit worried about you betraying my trust or leaving me for another person. I never have been, and I can't imagine I ever would be."

"People will talk," Sherlock pointed out.

"If you're referring to Anderson and Donovan, they've been talking since the day I moved into this flat, so I'm not fussed about that. And it scarcely matters. I don't spend most of my days with them, and I don't really care what they say. Let them talk if they want to – it makes no difference. Just try not to check out Waters' ass too much, and you'll be fine."

He laughed, ducking when Sherlock grabbed the towel back off the rack and threw it at him. John snatched it up, tossed it over Sherlock's shoulder and pulled him down into a deep kiss. He managed to transfer a patch of the shaving cream to his husband's face.

"Now look," he said, glancing in the mirror. "I have to start again. Get out, before I decide that going into work late again would be acceptable."

"I don't see why it wouldn't," Sherlock replied, grinning and wiping his face with the towel.

"I have patients who need me," John replied. "Out."

Sherlock complied, but not without kissing John once more on the way out.

"No snogging him, either!" John called and locked the door, laughing, before any retaliation could be launched.

* * *

Sam did it indeed make it easy, just as John had said. Surprisingly, Anderson managed to help, albeit unwittingly. Sherlock had made an arrangement with Lestrade to work at the Yard on some old cases that needed a fresh look, and the inspector was pleased to have him. The detective pretended he needed access to files and information that couldn't be transferred to his personal laptop, even though he could easily have accessed them without the department knowing.

He was beginning to suspect that Lestrade derived a perverse pleasure at seeing how Sherlock, Donovan and Anderson interacted, at least when nothing else was on the line. He established Sherlock at a desk that was not immediately adjacent to either of the other detectives' desks, but close enough.

Sam was the one who delivered old cold cases from records retention for him. Sherlock accepted the first couple batches without comment, and the constable said nothing either. The third time Sam was sent up with something, a dusty old box that had seen better days, he asked about John.

"How's your husband, detective? Is his shoulder healed?"

From down the line of desks, Anderson snorted. He was bored and antsy that day, Sherlock could tell, because Donovan was off somewhere else, investigating some case that he wasn't involved in.

"Don't waste your breath, constable," Anderson said. "It's not worth it."

Sam stared in well-feigned shock at the other detective and Sherlock shot a cool look over his shoulder.

"He's fine, constable, thank you for asking. His shoulder is much better. I'll tell him you enquired."

"Good," Sam said, flashing a grin that made Sherlock turn his attention back to the case files quickly, John's words echoing in his head. "Glad to hear it. Give him my best."

"I shall," Sherlock agreed.

Sam walked away and Sherlock kept his head bowed, tapping a pencil against the case file for distraction.

It came out in what Sherlock strongly suspected was staged conversation that Sam was a Doctor Who fan. Sherlock established quickly to himself that the other man wasn't pretending – apparently Sam Waters, or whoever he really was, was a true admirer of the Doctor. This pleased Sherlock to no end, because John was somewhat indifferent to the magnificence that was the Doctor Who series, even if he was willing to watch it.

After that, it became much easier to establish common ground and Sherlock invited Sam to join him and John for a drink one evening. As he had suspected, people – Anderson and Donovan – began to talk. He knew Lestrade was intrigued but not saying anything, and hoped that he would keep it that way.

They began establishing patterns, making sure to be seen in public places. Sherlock wondered what Sam thought of this sort of thing, this perpetual deception, this constant mask. He had considered asking, but John had advised him against it, pointing out that it was probably hard enough as it was without having to dredge it all to the surface.

Sam began wearing cologne at Sherlock's request, something distinctive that the detective could recognize. This pleased him, he said, because it came from France, which meant that Veronique had an excuse to go to Paris for a day, which meant he had to suffer less of her smoking. Sherlock suspected that whoever Veronique was, she must come from a line of perfumers. If she could smell all of the subtle musks and the vanilla undertone in the cologne that he could, then she was very talented indeed. He expected she'd chosen it deliberately, and was glad that Sam was wearing it, not John, because if John ever got ahold of it, Sherlock would never have let him leave the flat again. Or their bed, for that matter.

It was bad enough – or good enough, perhaps – when Sam wore it. And when they were out, it drew attention to the younger man, which was part of the design. The more people who noticed him, the more likely he was to be recognized.

It almost became routine. Donovan and Anderson seemed to enjoy having a new fish to fry, although they were careful to avoid doing so in Sam's presence. John had put his foot down quite early on about their relationship, so both detectives avoided that topic, but wound their way round to goading Sherlock about Sam. He played along, responding occasionally to Donovan, ignoring Anderson, because he knew it would get more of a reaction.

Sam found him one day outside at lunch. Sherlock knew John paid Lestrade to keep him in sandwiches during the day, because John was always concerned with how much he ate. Sherlock considered a meal routine to be unnecessary; he ate when he got hungry, but somehow, nearly two years of being with John had forced him to adapt to his husband's patterns. And since someone delivered the sandwiches every day, Sherlock took them. It made John happy, he knew.

It was a brilliant fall day, the temperature perfect, the sun out, the breeze carrying only a hint of the turning season. Sherlock glanced up at Sam, the sun momentarily behind the younger man's shoulder, casting him into silhouette.

He held out his phone as Sherlock's eyes adjusted to the light and caught the hard look in his eyes. The detective took the phone quickly and glanced down at it. There was a text message still displayed on the screen.

_Hello, beautiful._

Sherlock put the phone in his pocket as he stood, gripping Sam's shoulders and planting him on the bench. Sam leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees, fingers loosely laced together. His face was pale and the expression in his eyes was drawn and tense.

"It worked," he said. His voice was calm, but, Sherlock suspected, only thanks to years of training.

"You can still withdraw," Sherlock said.

Sam met Sherlock's gaze levelly.

"No," he said simply. "I can't."

He turned his eyes away for a moment, watching the noon hour crowds move by, as if hoping to spot Moriarty in there somewhere, to bring this all to a head now and see it finished. As though it could be that easy. Sherlock followed Sam's gaze and met Anderson's eyes as he approached them, heading back into the building with a bag of take away lunch. Sam arched an eyebrow as the detective went by, giving them a knowing look.

"I don't understand what the sergeant sees in him," he commented. "He's an ass."

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed. "He thinks we're shagging."

Sam gave a dry chuckle.

"Half this station thinks the other half is shagging each other," he observed. "These people need more to do with their time. You'd think the actual crimes would be enough."

He pushed himself to his feet and extended a hand. Sherlock withdrew the phone from his pocket and passed it back. Sam took it and looked down at the message, still and silent for a moment, then a shudder ran through him, brief enough that Sherlock knew no one else would have seen it.

"Sam," he said warningly.

Sam shook his head.

"Have a good lunch, detective. I'll see you back inside."


	6. Chapter 6

The next day, Sam Waters was gone.

Lestrade arrived at the constable's tiny flat to find a patrol car already on scene, lights flashing but sirens off, and the first of what he knew would become a crowd beginning to gather. It was late enough in the morning that the majority of the regular-hours work force were behind their desks, but this was London, and he was certain there were already several tourists in the small gathering, as well as the usual types who worked odd hours or had nothing better to do with their time that make his job more difficult.

Waters lived on the ground floor of an old, somewhat run down three-storey building, the entrance to which was being guarded by a uniformed policewoman. A couple of other tenants were watching curiously from open windows, all of them focused on a loud, rapid argument in French between Sherlock Holmes and a woman Lestrade had never seen before. John Watson was hanging back, looking angry, but did not appear to be entirely following the conversation.

It had been Sherlock who had called Lestrade, telling him about the missing constable and then hanging up before any questions could be asked, let alone answered. Lestrade had rounded up Donovan, who was just coming off an all night shift and really needed sleep, and called Anderson, who was pissing him off lately and needed to be put back in his place. A missing officer was serious, particularly when reported by another officer, even if the reporting officer was not exactly standard.

And Sam Waters had never missed a day under Lestrade's command.

"_Non!"_ Sherlock was saying as Lestrade approached the door. _"Ecoutez-moi-"_

"_Tu m'écoutes!"_ the French woman retorted, jabbing a finger at him.

"Hey!" Lestrade interjected, holding a hand between them, catching both of their attention. A few paces behind them, John looked relieved at the interruption. "What the hell is going on here?" he demanded. "Who the hell are you?" This was to the woman, who glowered at him. He hoped she spoke English.

She flashed a badge at him and Lestrade registered that even Sherlock was blinking in surprise.

"Interpol," she replied.

"What the hell is Interpol doing here? What do you want with my constable?"

"Your constable _is_ Interpol," Sherlock said.

Lestrade jerked his gaze to the younger man.

"Pardon me?" he asked.

Sherlock growled.

"We don't have time for this," he snapped. "I need some gloves. You need to get those cops out of there and let me in."

"This is your-" the French woman began.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock retorted. "Yes, this is my fault. That was the whole point! _Now you need to let me find him._"

"Will someone tell me what the bloody hell is going on?" Lestrade demanded.

"John will," Sherlock replied. "I need gloves." He raised his voice and repeated the request and a newly arrived CSU officer shouldered her way forward, pressing a pair into his hand, then snapping hers on as well.

"No, stay out here," Sherlock told her and she cast a startled glance at Lestrade, who hesitated. "Lestrade, do it. Moriarty has him."

At this, Lestrade met Sherlock's eyes with no small amount of shock, and found nothing in them to indicate that the consulting detective was playing him. Sherlock's expression was dark and serious, with an urgency the inspector had not often seen.

"Right," he said, still completely at a loss, but deciding the information would best be obtained if he took charge. "Stay out," he told the CSU officer, who turned and gestured to the two others who were joining her to wait.

"There are two constables inside," Sherlock said. "I need them out."

Lestrade nodded, letting out a deep breath, and noticed Anderson shouldering through the growing crowd to join them. He cursed his decision to involve the other detective now – whatever was going required Sherlock to work immediately, not to be distracted by this nonsense. He should have left him behind the moment he knew that the call was about Sam Waters, which had been immediately. Poor judgment on his part, even if Anderson was a good detective.

"Problem with your new boyfriend then, Holmes?" Anderson snapped.

Lestrade was impressed when John hauled off and punched Anderson square in the jaw. By the expression on Sherlock's face, the consulting detective was, too. The moment was suspended, Sherlock's urgency to get into the flat left hanging as Anderson stumbled backwards and the CSU officer wrapped her arms around John's chest, pulling him away. Donovan was there in an instant, but instead of taking the obvious side, she held up one hand in John's direction but her glare was spun toward Anderson.

"He's goddamn missing!" she snapped. "Lay right off, right now!"

"Inside," Sherlock snapped. "Now."

Lestrade followed him in and ordered the two uniformed officers out. They stared at him a moment, then obeyed, slipping out onto the growing crowd on the sidewalk, a large portion of whom were police officers. A general dispatch had gone out concerning a missing officer, and everyone available in the area was responding, even if that just meant adding to the chaos.

"Don't let anyone in," Sherlock ordered, stepping into the tiny flat. The place was a disaster; from what Lestrade could immediately see, most of the furniture had been overturned and a mirror had been smashed. There was blood on the glass and on the wall beside the mirror, not much, but any amount was worrying.

The inspector stopped at the door, barring any more access and Sherlock stood stock still, carefully not touching anything, features pinched into a frown of concentration.

* * *

The flat was at best impersonal, even after three and a half years of being lived in. It had very clearly not been decorated by Sam Waters, unless Sam went in for matching furniture sets and carefully chosen accent pieces. This was not a flat designed by a police officer in his mid-twenties; this had been provided for him. Someone else had set all of this up before Sam Waters had moved in. The very fine attention to detail was enough to signal that. No one his age had that kind of taste, especially not a police officer who lived more hours on the job than he did at home and had no one to come home to.

There was little that seemed to belong to Sam himself, mostly surface things, such as books and some DVDs. There was a framed picture of two people who were supposed to be Sam's parents, probably faked altogether, Sherlock suspected. So many of the small things that most people accumulated were lacking, but there were a fair amount of books on the single bookshelf, giving Sherlock an idea of what Sam did in his spare time. All of the available Doctor Who series were piled up haphazardly next to the small television set.

Those were untouched, as were the books. Nothing had been opened or pulled apart. This hadn't been about finding something Sam had; this had been about finding Sam.

And he had fought back, desperately. Sherlock turned his eyes toward the ceiling, wondering how it was that in this old building, with thin walls and creaking floors – he could hear the person in the flat above moving about, probably gawking at the scene outside – no one had heard Sam struggle.

It hadn't just been an act. Sherlock could see that clearly, and he could not imagine the Sam he'd seen shuddering the previous day simply letting himself be taken.

Sherlock moved carefully, scarcely daring to breathe. Behind him, he heard John come in and begin speaking to Lestrade in a low voice, explaining the situation to the bewildered and angry inspector. With some effort, because he was still human, no matter what John's blog or even he himself liked to pretend, he ignored his husband's voice, eyes following the marks on the worn carpet.

It was almost like a dance, or like the dark ghost of one. There had been two people other than Sam, Moriarty was one of them, and someone larger or heavier. A good choice, Sherlock noted absently, clinically, since Sam had a police firearm and training to use it and defend himself. But it wouldn't have been at a time that the constable would have been alert – sometime during the night, he suspected, when Sam would have been fatigued and less aware. Not sleeping; Sherlock had no doubts that Sam had not slept that night. Or at least, not well and not much.

He followed the remnants of the movements around the room with his eyes, taking care only to shift his position when he absolutely had to. It had been brief and had ended at the mirror. That was Sam's blood, on the glass and on the wall. Moriarty probably had never even raised a hand.

Sherlock traced his eyes back to the starting point and went through it again, more slowly, aware of every beat of his heart, of the murmur of John's voice behind him, of the rising sound of the crowd outside. Deliberately, he shut them all out, breathing slowly and steadily, until he saw what he was looking for.

He crossed the room carefully and crouched down to pick up the watch that had fallen on the floor next to the bookcase. He turned it over carefully to find the glass had been almost completely smashed off of the face. Sherlock looked quickly at the bookshelf and saw where the watch had struck it. This hadn't been accidental, and it had been quick. Sam had done this during the struggle, and had managed to get the watch off. The clip was old and worn, so that had probably been easy enough.

How had they disarmed him? His gun was missing as well, and he wouldn't have been without it, not that night. There was only blood on the wall and the mirror, not enough for him to have been shot. No bullet holes, no smell of gunfire. No one had reported shots fired, either, but the people in this building may as well have been deaf. Or perhaps didn't care to get involved, to turn the attention of the law to themselves. Or, he considered, checking the watch again, were sleeping off alcohol.

The watch was stopped at five thirty-two in the morning.

Tranquilizer guns could be made silent.

"John," Sherlock said, glancing up. John stopped talking to Lestrade, who looked disbelieving and angry at the whole situation. Sherlock beckoned him with a quick gesture and the doctor hesitated, then toed off his shoes, carefully following the path Sherlock had taken to reach the bookshelf. So, Sherlock thought. He was learning. John crouched down in front of him and Sherlock held up the watch. John took it carefully, having acquired latex gloves for himself at some point, and looked at it.

"He's had him for almost five hours," Sherlock said softly. John closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath. "He hasn't called."

John bit his lower lip – Sherlock really wished he wouldn't, because it was extremely distracting – and glanced away before looking back at him. Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, dropping his head for a moment.

"What if I'm wrong?" he whispered, raising his head again to meet John's eyes once more.

John gave him a level look.

"Don't be," he said.

Sherlock paused a moment, then nodded quickly, digging his phone from pocket and peeling off one of his gloves, setting it on his knee. With Lestrade watching from the background, he dialled Sam's mobile number, putting it on speaker and thumbing up the volume so the inspector could hear it from across the room. Sherlock could hear John's breathing plain as day and could almost feel the pounding of John's heart, echoing his own.

"Well, hello!" a cheerful disembodied voice said from the other end of the line after a single ring. "I was beginning to despair, Sherlock, I really was. What took you so long? I thought perhaps you weren't going to bother."

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade and mouthed the word "trace". The inspector nodded once quickly and disappeared from the doorway.

"Where's Sam?" Sherlock asked.

Moriarty sighed on the other end of the line.

"Really, must we forgo the social niceties? They do so keep standards from falling altogether, don't you find?" he asked. "And it's been so long since we've spoken. I do hope John passed on my best wishes after our last conversation. Is he there?"

"He's here," Sherlock replied, holding up a hand to keep John from speaking. "Where's Sam?"

"You needn't worry about the young constable," Moriarty assured him. "He's quite well. I was so delighted to meet up with him again, and I must thank you for that. I do hate to spoil your fun, but I did see him first, after all."

"Let me speak to him," Sherlock said.

Moriarty laughed.

"Ah, no, my friend," he said. "Not so fast. I've hardly had him back to myself and you want to interrupt us? Tell me, Sherlock, do you want him back?"

"Yes," Sherlock said levelly, meeting John's eyes. His husband took his free hand, squeezing it tightly, and Sherlock curled his fingers around John's in equal response. "I do."

"Tiring of John already?" Moriarty asked and tutted. Sherlock shook his head at John, who simply nodded, keeping his gaze steady.

"Play," John mouthed.

"John has nothing to do with this," Sherlock said levelly. He saw Lestrade come back and take up his position in the doorway again, his lips pursed into an angry white line.

"Doesn't he? Shame," Moriarty commented. "So sorry, John, to hear that about you. You were such fun, at least for me. But I'm not sure willing to trade in on this one. Sam is quite pretty, have you noticed? Even more so now than when I last saw him. The dark hair suits him, don't you think? So does the new name, so much more fitting for his appearance, I think. No, I think I'll keep him for now, unless you're willing to do something for me."

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, keeping his voice calm.

"I want to play, Sherlock," Moriarty said. "It's been so dreary lately, hasn't it? I do so miss our games; can't quite figure out why we stopped. Ever since the Merkley case, I've been utterly bored. What a dreadful shame that was, wasn't it? I grow so tired of this city these days. I think another of our games would spice things up a bit. Although," he laughed. "Sam has helped with that."

Sherlock tightened his fingers hard on John's.

"We were just picking up where we left off," Moriarty continued. "I'm not entirely certain I want you to interrupt."

"I will play if you let me speak to him," Sherlock said.

There was a cool chuckle from the other end of the line.

"Difficult to say no," Moriarty mused. "On the one hand, I have something I've been looking for for _ages_. On the other – I'll give you six hours."

"And then what?" Sherlock asked.

Moriarty laughed genuinely, as if they'd just exchanged a good joke. Sherlock clenched his jaw, keeping his gaze locked with John's, feeling as though it were the only thing linking him to the rest of the world in that moment.

"If I told you, what would be the point of the game?" Moriarty sighed with a mischievous smile in his voice. "You do have to _play_ to see the reward, you know. It would rather spoil it if I just told you."

"Let me speak to Sam, or I withdraw immediately."

"And if you do so, perhaps he'll stop breathing," Moriarty commented, lightly, as if remarking on the weather or a small delay in the trains. "Most likely not immediately, although he may wish it were so."

"I speak to Sam," Sherlock said. "Or we don't play. I will walk away." He saw John's jaw tighten but ignored it, focusing on the sounds from the other end of the line.

"You know, I believe you would," Moriarty said after a moment, affecting disappointment. "I'll give you this. One minute."

There were small sounds in the background and Sherlock let out a slow breath, turning his gaze from John's for a moment to meet Lestrade's eyes. The detective inspector was frozen, waiting.

"Do say hello, Sam," Moriarty said and John dropped his head when a second person's voice came on the line. Sherlock raised his free hand, still clasped with John's, to John's forehead. John pressed their joined hands hard to his skin and Sherlock could feel John's breath against his arm, whispering something, a prayer, a plea, he wasn't certain.

"Sod off, you bastard," Sam gasped through gritted teeth. Sherlock closed his eyes, listening hard. Sam's voice was strained and tense and barely under his control – not drugged, not right now, at least. What would be the point of drugs if they dulled pain? He strained to hear something beyond the jagged edge in Sam's voice, some background sound, traffic or trains or ambient noise that might indicate where they were, but if it was there, it was too faint.

"That will cost you," Moriarty commented calmly, not to Sherlock but to Sam. "After all this time, I really am hurt. Six hours, Sherlock. Don't bother with the phone again, either. It will do you no good. Best of luck."

He cut the connection and for a moment, Sherlock stayed frozen until John groaned. Then he pushed himself to his feet, pulling John along with him.

"No time for that," he said sharply, turning to Lestrade. "I need the trace on the phone. We need to get back to the Yard. Now."


	7. Chapter 7

The atmosphere in the car was so tense that John could feel it weighing down on his shoulders and in his lungs. He was riding in the back, usually reserved for arrestees, Sherlock beside him, with Lestrade driving. London raced past them, highlighted in blues and reds from the car's emergency lights. Lestrade looked a decade older than he had half an hour previous and John wasn't entirely certain the inspector should have been behind the wheel, but forbore comment.

Sherlock was oblivious to either of them and had been since they'd been informed that Sam Waters' phone signal had been bounced across the city and could not be pinpointed to one location. That was before it had gone dead, of course. Veronique had told them that it had a GPS locator in it that remained active even when the phone was off, but the police were unable to track it. Sherlock had not seemed at all surprised by this, and John suspected he'd already known and was prepared for the fact that James Moriarty had also known and removed and destroyed it.

John doubted the phone itself was even in one piece any more.

Sherlock had his eyes focused on the back of the seat in front of him, unseeingly, and he was muttering to himself, biting his lower lip occasionally before shaking his head. John knew this was bad; usually Sherlock puzzled things out loud for his benefit when he was there. The fact that he wasn't meant that his mouth couldn't keep up with his thoughts. The flickering of his grey eyes and his eyelashes told John the same. Sherlock was also tapping the fingers of his left hand against the seat, but the movement wasn't absent. He was plucking his violin strings, playing from memory in absence of the actual instrument.

"Geoff, what happened to Daniel Goodnow's flat?" Sherlock asked suddenly, raising his eyes.

Startled, Lestrade met his gaze in the rearview mirror.

"I don't know," he said.

"What are you thinking?" John asked.

"He said 'we were just picking up where we left off'. He had to take him somewhere, somewhere he wants me to be able to find. There was no background noise, so it wasn't anywhere busy, no buses, so not central, no trains, no air traffic. No traffic sounds at all, so not a busy street. No sounds of crowds or children, so a residential area that isn't close to any of the major tourist zones or schools. And he'd need somewhere quiet, undisturbed. And it's where _we_ left off."

"There could be people living there by now," John said.

"There could," Sherlock agreed.

That made it worse.

"Hang on," Lestrade muttered, slowing down sharply and veering around a corner. John braced one hand on the roof of the car and the other on the seat. Briefly, Sherlock covered John's hand with his – the contact was only for a moment, but it wasn't accidental. He didn't meet John's eyes, because he was still absorbed in whatever was running through his mind.

Even with the sirens, it still took them twenty minutes to reach Notting Hill, since Sam lived in Clapton. John was grateful that they weren't in morning rush hour traffic, then remembered that if they'd realized Sam was missing sooner, Moriarty would not have had him for so long.

He glanced at his watch when they pulled up to Goodnow's old family flat. It was a few minutes before eleven in the morning. They had five and a half hours.

Sherlock was out of the car even before it had stopped, John scrambling after him, Lestrade yelling at them to wait. They both ignored the inspector, dashing up the steps of the old building, startling a woman walking her dog past the building. John spun back as Sherlock hammered on the door.

"You!" he said. "Did you see anyone coming or going from this flat?"

She cast a glance at the police car and then back at John, brown eyes wide, but shook her head. Sherlock cursed from behind John and stepped back, but John grabbed him, pulling him aside.

"I actually know how to do this," he said and Sherlock nodded as Lestrade ran up the stairs to meet them. John eyed up the door, then kicked it hard, right below the lock. It splintered but held and he kicked again, dislodging it from its hinges. Both Sherlock and Lestrade had drawn their guns and John let them pour past him, pulling out his own pistol as he followed them inside.

"Police!" Lestrade shouted, following Sherlock as the younger man clattered up the steps to the second storey. John raised his pistol and aimed as Sherlock pushed the door open – it was unlocked and already slightly ajar. Lestrade had his weapon up as well, and as soon as the door had swung in, Sherlock raised his gun to eye level, sweeping a glance across the flat.

John followed him in, seeing Sherlock flare his nostrils and inhale.

"He was here," Sherlock said tersely and John didn't argue. Sherlock had made Sam wear specific cologne for this very reason. It was the only thing that had bothered John, although he hadn't said anything about it, and now he was glad his husband had insisted.

"Sam!" Lestrade called. "Sam Waters!"

The small livingroom and kitchen were a mess, but it was, John thought, left over from the previous police disturbance. There was a layer of dust on everything – so it wasn't inhabited yet, probably still unsold as matters of Goodnow's estate were settled, seeing as how he died a suspect in a police investigation and had no immediate family.

But there were two sets of footprints scored in the dust. John saw Sherlock note them immediately and trace their movements across the old and scuffed wooden floor. One set was less distinct, Sam's, John thought. He would have been resisting or drugged.

Sherlock moved carefully through the small flat, down the short corridor, toward the bedroom, Lestrade and John following in tense silence. The door was shut and Sherlock motioned Lestrade to face him on the other side of the hall. The inspector did so, back pressed against the wall, pistol drawn up, held near his shoulder. Sherlock turned the knob and swung the door open, Lestrade moving as he did so to cover him, so that the inspector was in the room first. Pale sunlight poured over him, spilling into the hallway.

This room, John thought faintly, was not a mess left over from the confrontation between Goodnow and the police. The dust was scuffed everywhere on the floor, no way to tell individual prints here, and the old wardrobe was somewhat askew. It had been shifted away from the cold radiator on the wall, based on the scuffmarks on the floor. There were also remnants of a mobile phone scattered about the floor, crushed as if under the heel of a boot.

The window leading to the fire escape was open, the faded yellow drapes billowing gently in the autumn breeze. Sherlock stuck his head out, his expression dark.

Lestrade moved back out of the room to clear the bathroom, and John saw what he was certain Sherlock already had. Blood droplets on the radiator, and score marks in the old paint. Sherlock lowered his weapon and crouched near the radiator, closing his eyes and inhaling again. Lestrade came back in, gun down, his eyes like storm clouds.

"He was here," Sherlock repeated, opening his eyes. "Bound hands at the wrists with some sort of packing twine, then handcuffed to the radiator. Police issue handcuffs based on the depth and width of the scratches, and how well they held up, so Sam's own, since they weren't in his flat, nor, I suspect, in his locker at the Yard, when someone checks. Not a lot of blood, which is good, the bleeding was incidental, secondary."

John shook his head. There were a lot of ways to hurt someone without drawing blood, or much blood.

"How can you be so bloody calm about this?" Lestrade hissed.

"I'm not," Sherlock replied. "But cursing about it won't help Sam, will it? Nor will it undo what James Moriarty has done. Do you understand that Moriarty was looking for him for seven years? This is personal, and it was always going to be. Sam knew that."

"Are you suggesting he let himself –"

"I am _saying_ he made this choice knowing that the dangers were," Sherlock said. "Not that I enjoy it. Let me work - unless you don't want him found."

Lestrade started to retort but John held up a hand, diffusing the situation somewhat. He understood that Lestrade was tense and frightened, and that it was difficult for him to see that Sherlock was the same. John could tell – the analytical veneer was too sharp, too much without pleasure. Normally Sherlock relished this sort of puzzle, but now, he was working through it with only urgency and no enjoyment.

"He left as soon as he hung up," Sherlock continued. "Sam wasn't drugged when we spoke, but may be now. And he has a police officer's gun as well, in addition to his own weapon, I'm sure, but it's a good way to get Sam to cooperate."

"Where's he gone, then?" Lestrade asked.

"I don't know," Sherlock said and John could tell how much it cost to admit that. "We need to get back to the Yard. There's nothing here."

"We can get a CSU team-"

"Fine, but we can't wait. There's nothing they can tell me. This isn't where he wants me to look. This is only where he wanted me to start."

For a moment, John thought Lestrade was going to say no, to finally put his foot down with the consulting detective, to say too much was on the line. But the moment passed and he relented, nodding.

"Let's go," he ordered.

* * *

The drive back to the Yard ate up more time. John could feel it slipping away as the car raced through London's busy streets. He wondered what Moriarty would do when the time was up – killing Sam seemed somehow unlikely, because of the man's depraved interest in him, but what else would he do with him? Where would he take him, if this didn't end the way Sherlock and Sam had planned?

_That's the question, isn't it?_ he asked himself.

Veronique was waiting for them back at the Yard, dark eyes bright, her expression tense, but she didn't say anything when they came in, waiting for news. Sherlock didn't have to say anything either; the look they exchanged was enough, and John could see the French Interpol officer steadying herself, swallowing on fear and anger before following them into Lestrade's office.

The station was in an uproar. John had never seen it quite so chaotic, even during the worst of their cases. He had some vague memories of being brought in during the Merkley case, when Lestrade had been rounding up everyone available to help find Nicholas Merkley, but John had also been under the influence of morphine then, and events had been exaggerated or under appreciated in his mind. He could remember quite clearly the look Sherlock had given him when installing him in the barracks, but not, for example, anything to do with the drive from his surgery to the Yard itself.

There were officers everywhere, pressing Lestrade for news, and John recognized Sam's current partner, a woman in her early thirties who looked desperate to disbelieve that the constable was missing. There were no other Interpol agents, as far as John could tell, because he didn't see anyone who wasn't in uniform or who looked unfamiliar and out of place. Donovan was dealing with Sam's partner, whose name John couldn't remember at the moment.

"Carolyn Edwards," Sherlock muttered to John on their way by. John met Sherlock's eyes momentarily but didn't ask. He knew how Sherlock did that; even now, he was hyper aware of everything.

Lestrade installed the three of them in his office and left to deal with some aspect of this new crisis. John wondered is this would be enough space, since Sherlock was used to barrelling about their flat and having access to all of his toys when he was thinking. The detective's fingers strummed against his thigh, still playing his violin.

"Veronique, what was his name?" Sherlock asked suddenly, looking up at the weary looking French woman. She appeared momentarily surprised.

"You didn't look?" she enquired.

"He asked me not to," Sherlock replied and even John was stunned. Sherlock had dug up John's service records, after all, and seemed to have no problem with that. But it was true; Sam had specifically asked Sherlock not to look, even though the constable had admitted he thought the detective would. John filed this away for future reference. Once they found Sam, and when things had calmed down, there were a few things John could think of he'd like to ask Sherlock to do. Like getting rid of said service records.

Veronique sighed, looking away a moment, pressing a fist to her lips.

"'is real name, the name 'e was born to, was Gabriel Robert Mitchell." She said the first two names in French, but John suspected it was not because Sam was French, but because that was how she could best pronounce them. "The name 'e was working under when James Moriarty first found 'im was Jonathan Arthur Kenway."

John and Sherlock exchanged a shocked glance, but Veronique held up a hand to forestall them.

"_Non_," she said. "We called 'im Jacques."

Again, John suspected she meant the anglicized "Jack" but couldn't enunciate it properly.

"Where was this?" Sherlock pressed.

"Liverpool."

"No, too far," Sherlock said. "He's keeping him here – he said he was bored with the city lately, so he wanted something to do here, so he'd keep Sam – Gabriel here."

"Call 'im Sam," Veronique said. "We 'ad to change it, when we put 'im in protective services. It _is_ 'is name, now. And it's easier for everyone."

Sherlock nodded, a brief, distracted movement.

"Please," Veronique said and there was a tenuous note in her voice, one that made John wince internally. "What did you find?"

Sherlock left John to fill her in, pacing the inspector's office, ignoring both of them altogether. Veronique listened to John silently, her dark eyes shining, but her jaw set and her expression determined. John wondered if she'd been assigned to Sam since he had joined Interpol, and how hard it would be to lose someone in your charge after seven years. She had been there after the incident at the warehouse, listening to Sam scream in his sleep for two months. He knew enough about police procedure now to know that as Sam's handler, Veronique's contact with him wouldn't be too frequent, but it would be regular. And, he strongly suspected it had been a lot more common after Sherlock had accessed Sam's file and tried to call Mycroft down on him.

"What contact did you 'ave with Moriarty after the Merkley case?" she asked after John had finished updating her. He was impressed at how she handled herself, even though the army doctor in him recognized it was in large part through careful training. He didn't know much about Interpol, having not been on the wrong side of international law himself, but he could recognize intense and focused training when he saw it. The woman who was worried about Sam was subsumed by the agent who needed to get her officer back.

"None," Sherlock said. "We were looking, but that was it, up until Sam told me about himself."

"What cases 'ave you worked since Sam spoke to you?" she pressed.

"All cold cases," Sherlock said, then held up a hand, resuming his pacing. Lestrade came back in, but John cast him a warning look, and the inspector didn't say anything, shutting the door gently, standing near the wall to give Sherlock room to move. "Nothing new. All before Sam came to London, let alone to the Yard." He chewed on his lower lip, shaking his head, but his grey eyes were unfocused, looking somewhere else, somewhere only he could see.

Then he refocused on John quickly, surprising the even the doctor with the speed at which he did so.

"This isn't about me," he said, glancing at Veronique and Lestrade. "He wanted us to find where he'd taken Sam, but that wasn't the point. This is about Sam – he's been looking for him for seven years and now he's gotten what he wants. _That's_ where we need to look. Picking up where they left off. Lestrade, I need all of Sam's case files from the Charing Cross Station, when he first transferred to London. Veronique, where was he before that?"

She hesitated and Sherlock growled.

"_Non, ecoutez_," she said firmly. "'e was in the 'ospital, in Birmingham. 'e wasn't working, _comprends_? Nothing between the job in Liverpool and the one here, except for recovery."

"Then not that," Sherlock agreed. "But everything since then. Lestrade," he repeated.

"I'm on it," Lestrade replied, pulling open the door to his office and heading back into the furor outside.


	8. Chapter 8

John thought the press conference was a singularly bad idea, not least because it had distracted Sherlock for a good five minutes, time which was slipping far too quickly away from them. Lestrade had sided with them – and Veronique, who was not happy about the prospect of Sam's identity leaking – but had no choice. Sherlock had railed against it, cursing the decision, pointing out that half the city was going to be calling with useless tips about men who looked like Moriarty or like Sam, or who maybe resembled them enough in height or hair colour, leading the police on futile chases, wasting the little time they had left. Lestrade had agreed, but he was acting on orders from above, and John knew what that felt like. A missing police officer, however, was not going to go unnoticed, and any lack of comment from Scotland Yard was going to draw attention. As it was, there were already news reports about it, which had begun circulating shortly after the police had descended upon Sam's flat.

Clearing the air wouldn't help, though, not in this case. Moriarty wouldn't let Sam show up unless he wanted him to, and he wasn't about to be turned in by some nosey neighbour or vigilant tourist. And the police could not give all the details of Sam's identity, nor Moriarty's, not without causing some panic.

John had to force Sherlock not to watch the press conference, since after about ten seconds, Sherlock was cursing roundly and not getting anything done. He took away the detective's phone with a pointed look, after Sherlock had managed to mass text the press corps the message "you're wasting our time!". Veronique said something in rapid French that John couldn't understand – his French was poor at best. But Sherlock calmed down somewhat, if only under duress.

They began to pore through Sam's old case files and John's attention flagged quickly until he caught himself, forcing his mind back into concentration. He had troubles understanding – and believing – that a highly trained Interpol agent who had survived an attempt on his life could settle into a job as a London cop, policing a tourist zone. Most of Sam's cases seemed to deal with small-scale problems: muggings and pick-pocketings – mostly from the tourists who weren't bright enough to keep their wallets safe – thefts, robberies, noise disturbance complaints. It seemed tedious even to him, and he wondered what Sam had thought of it. Had he welcomed the change from his time in Liverpool dealing with sex traffickers? Had he resented the monotony? When he tried to imagine Sam Waters as the young man in the warehouse in Liverpool, he had a hard time combining the images. But that had been Jonathan Kenway. He allowed himself a moment to wonder about Gabriel Mitchell, a man who was only a memory and a name now, then refocused on the files spread out on the desk in front of him.

Sherlock had all of Sam's files open on Lestrade's computer as well, and Veronique had added her laptop to the effort, but they'd also received hard copies from records retention and from Charing Cross. It was the curse of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, John thought. Everything was digital and on paper, but he preferred paper himself, even though he knew Sherlock did not.

There was nothing that seemed significant, even when Sherlock had begun making piles with the paper copies of the case files, then tearing those piles apart and building new ones. Veronique was combing through files carefully, muttering to herself in a string of unhappy French. Occasionally, Sherlock would pull a file from her hands and check it against the computer. When this happened, she didn't say anything but picked up a new file, or turned to her own laptop, features dark with concentration.

Whenever the door opened to admit someone carrying new files from Charing Cross, John could hear phones ringing in the background.

"Waste of time, waste of time," Sherlock had muttered at some point at the sound of the phones. He had browbeaten a young officer to fetch them a map of the city and began marking locations on it, starting with the earliest cases Sam had worked out of the Charing Cross station. John could discern no visual pattern in them. He wondered if Sherlock could.

At some point, Lestrade came in with coffee for them, which both Sherlock and Veronique ignored, but which John downed gratefully. He knew his husband well enough to know that Sherlock usually forgot about food and drink when he was working. Whether Veronique was the same, or whether she was too keyed up for coffee, he could not tell.

A growl from Sherlock made him look up. The clock on the wall caught his attention; it was a little after two. John felt as though someone had punched him; when had _that_ happened? Where had the time fled? Based on Moriarty's limit, they had two and a half hours left. Judging from the look in Sherlock's eyes, the consulting detective was aware of each minute that slipped past.

"This is getting us bloody nowhere," Sherlock said. "We're missing something. But what?"

He turned and began leafing through files again, trying to find some pattern.

They were interrupted by Anderson opening the door. It was the first time John had ever seen the other man look at Sherlock without any sort of disdain, only brusque professional efficiency. It made John's blood run cold.

"Holmes, you need to see this," he said, jerking his head toward the corridor and the noise beyond. Sherlock hesitated, then nodded at John and Veronique who joined him.

It was chaos outside the office. Every desk was occupied, with nearly everyone on a phone. As Anderson led them by, his expression dark and forbidding, John overheard snatches of conversation, almost all of them police officers asking for information about where the callers had seen the people they believed to be Sam and Moriarty. Most of them were scribbling frantically on notepads, which were being passed off to detectives John didn't recognize. He wondered how many officers from Charing Cross had come over, off duty or on, to assist.

Anderson led them to a smaller room in which a computer tech was working earnestly in front of a set of monitors. John cast an eye over them; they were feeds from CCTV cameras in the city, but he couldn't place where, not immediately. Somewhere busy, since there were a lot of people in most of the views, although a handful of cameras appeared to be on small side streets or in alleys, where there were no pedestrians or traffic at the time the films had been taken.

Lestrade was waiting for them, arms crossed, looking haggard. He gestured to the tech when they came in and the young man nodded, calling up something.

"Screen two," he said, pointing, and John turned his eyes toward it. It was a narrow angle of a quiet side street. He could see some store fronts on the opposite side of the street, with flats above them, but the place appeared to be more or less deserted, perhaps because of the time of day, perhaps the area.

After a moment, two men walked into view, passing just beneath the camera's eye. John heard Veronique gasp as Sam Waters looked straight into the camera, as if meeting their gazes. The image was quite high quality, in colour and detailed, not grainy.

"Stop it there," Sherlock ordered and the tech froze the image with Sam still looking straight at them. Ignoring everyone else, John moved toward the monitor, meeting the young man's green eyes squarely, searching his face. He had a red mark on his left cheek, not a handprint, but something else, where he'd been struck. It wasn't glaring, and may pass unnoticed if one wasn't paying too much attention to him, but the bruises on his neck weren't subtle. John could see that the blue and purple welts looked like finger marks and he quelled a wave of nausea.

"He's drugged," he said, turning back to Sherlock, who nodded. The glassiness in Sam's eyes was enough to indicate that, but he was also aware enough to make eye contact with the camera. "Scopolamine, I think. He's functioning well, but not resisting."

The gall of Moriarty, to parade him around the city without caring. The other man hadn't even glanced at the camera and was not holding Sam, nor did he seem to have a weapon trained on the young police officer.

"Where is this?" Sherlock demanded.

"Down near the Strand, one of those private antique places that's by appointment only. An hour ago," the inspector sighed.

"Half the bloody city is calling in false tips and _no one_ near the Strand noticed this?" Sherlock snarled. "Goddamn bloody eye witnesses – why does no one pay attention?"

He stormed out, and John followed him back to Lestrade's office, closing the door gently behind him.

"You can rail about the unreliability of witnesses later," John said bluntly. "At least we know where he was an hour ago."

"Which does us no good," Sherlock replied. "They aren't still there – that was solely for our benefit, to taunt us. Not that they won't send a squad down there to waste their time running about like sheep." He bit his lip, then threw himself into Lestrade's chair, turning back to the files.

Veronique came back in and they went back to work, trying to find something. Sherlock pulled aside all the cases in which the victims or suspects shared a name with any of Sam's aliases, but there was nothing significant. John was hard pressed to understand how they could pick any noteworthy out of the routine cases Sam had worked in Charing Cross. It was mostly dealing with tourists, and had nothing to do with his previous work in Liverpool, nor could John see any indication that Moriarty had his hands in any of these incidents. They were too banal.

Sherlock snapped his fingers suddenly, dragging John back from Sam's past to the present. He cast a glance at the clock again – gone past two-thirty now. Less than two hours. He waited for Sherlock to say something but his husband didn't, his fingers flying across the keyboard, grey eyes bright. He paused every so often, reading furiously.

"Got it!" he exclaimed triumphantly after several long minutes, and John was up in an instant, standing over Sherlock's shoulder, Veronique leaning past him, one arm propped on the desk.

It was a report from the Kennington police station in Lambeth, dated February twenty-sixth 2010. Two months before Sam had transferred to the Yard, but after, John noted, he and Sherlock had come into contact with Moriarty, at least peripherally, through that demented cabbie who had been offing people. At first glance, it didn't seem to have anything to do with Sam; the report was from two Kennington officers about a female jumper on the Waterloo Bridge, who had been talked down eventually and sent off to a hospital somewhere in the suburbs. The report was a mess of details, interviews with witnesses, of which there had been many. But John spotted it after a moment – the man who had managed to talk Mary Louise Harper down, at least until the Kennington officers had arrived to assist, was off duty constable Sam Waters.

Sherlock had called up all the cases across the city in which Sam Waters' name was mentioned.

"What was he doing there?" John mused.

"Running," Veronique replied promptly. "'e used to run before 'is shifts at Charing Cross, on the bridge. 'e said 'e liked the view of the water. But _je ne comprends pas_, why is this important? It wasn't the first time 'e 'elped with something off duty. 'e 'as to, as a police officer."

Sherlock nodded, but the motion was automatic, unnoticed.

"Look, though," he said, pointing to the report. "Harper was committed to a psychiatric hospital, not because she was considered suicidal, but because she was diagnosed as schizophrenic. She kept telling the officers – including Sam – that someone had told her to try jumping off of the bridge. She wouldn't say who, just 'he'. The officers thought she'd had a psychotic break and was hearing voices. It says here that she was disoriented and unaware of what was going on around her for the most part." He turned his head to focus on John. "What if that wasn't because she needed medication, but was on medication she didn't need?"

John nodded quickly.

"Possible," he said. "Especially if it was medication for schizophrenia and she isn't schizophrenic. It could make her seem as though she was."

"She was a chemist for a chemical manufacturing company," Sherlock said. "Specializing in providing equipment for explosives for the armed forces. No coincidence. This is who we're looking for. Someone _was_ telling her to jump off of that bridge. Let's go."

* * *

Mary Harper was still in the hospital, two and a half years later, but her husband and their teenager daughter had a small house in West Molesey. The trip sucked up more time, but John felt a new edge in the car – they were onto something. Sherlock was almost vibrating with undirected energy, unable to sit still. Not that he ever really did, but it was worse now. Veronique was still, but her dark eyes were gleaming; John recognized that look as wanting revenge. He thought she'd be a dangerous woman to face.

They arrived with the SWAT team but were held back as the unit entered the house. Matt Harper was at home, although his teenage daughter was not, it being a school day, and he was hustled outside, shocked at the sudden onslaught of his home, too stunned to be angry, only able to ask what was going on in a bewildered tone.

When Sherlock saw him, he hauled John over, trailed immediately by Veronique.

"Who're you?" Matt demanded. He was greying before his time, John thought, because he could only be in his mid-forties as best, not much older than John himself, but little trace remained of his light brown hair. Two and a half years of a wife whose condition would not improve could do that, the doctor thought.

"Police," Sherlock said shortly. "Have you seen either of these two men?" He held up his phone, which John had returned under the condition that the detective not use it to harass Lestrade or the press, and Matt took it, looking even more shocked at the pictures on the screen.

"Yes, that's the missing PC, isn't it?" he asked, indicating Sam's picture. "And the bloke you think took him?"

Sherlock nodded, but gestured for more. Matt shook his head, looking confused.

"Do you recognize the officer from anywhere else?" he pressed.

"Should I?" Matt asked.

"He's the constable that talked your wife off the bridge."

At this, Matt's eyes gleamed with shock and he looked from the phone to Sherlock, lips parted, but unable to say anything for a moment.

"But I – They aren't here, I've not seen them," he managed. "Why would they come here?"

"Because James Moriarty put your wife on that bridge," Sherlock said and Matt looked even more shocked, if that were possible. John reached out quickly to steady him and the other man shot him an acknowledging look.

"No, Mary imagined that. No one set her there," he said.

"Wrong," Sherlock replied. "Before this happened, shortly before, did she mention anything unusual happening at work? Contact from anyone she shouldn't have had contact with?"

Matt started to shake his head then stopped himself, nodding slowly.

"Yeah, someone was trying to buy stuff off them on the sly," he said. "But that sort of thing happened there all the time."

"Did it happen often to your wife?"

"Less so than the reps to the military," he replied. "Her bosses arranged for her to meet this guy, but I never found out what happened. She couldn't tell me. I figured he'd just been arrested."

"No," Sherlock said shortly. "That's him."

"But – I don't understand. Why would he try and get her to jump off a bridge?"

"Because she saw him," Sherlock said. "And he could. Mister Harper, you need to get the doctors to stop your wife's medication."

"Are you crazy? She's schizophrenic!"

"No," Sherlock replied. "She isn't. She's being made to look that way, so it looks like her suicide attempt was the result of a delusion. She's being drugged, but the very medications they're using to try and treat her. It's making her seem schizophrenic, because she's not."

"What?" Matt demanded, but Sherlock ignored him when the SWAT leader came out of the house, shaking his head.

"Nothing!" he called. "They aren't here!"

"Then where?" Sherlock muttered, looking away, focusing his eyes on nothing. "Not the hospital, too well guarded, too many cameras, too much security." He paused and John took back his phone from Matt Harper gently. The consulting detective bit his lip, tapping his fingers against it quickly, agitated, then locked his gaze back on John.

"The bridge itself," he said. "Six hours. Four-thirty. Right over rush hour."

* * *

The reports were already coming in, at ten after four, of a disturbance on the Waterloo Bridge, and it did not take long for the police dispatchers to start relaying that the missing constable had been found and was being held hostage on the bridge by the man who had taken him. Sherlock rang Lestrade, ordering that all the units being called to the scene stand down, that no one should go in until he himself got there, unless the inspector wanted more officers lost to James Moriarty. John winced and wished – not for the first time – that Sherlock had some idea of tact. But it was too close, to tight for that now anyway.

By the time they arrived, screaming to a halt, sirens still blaring, the bridge was packed with emergency vehicles and rush hour traffic. Motorists were being rounded out of their vehicles by police near the edge of the bridge and were forming something of a human barricade through which their car had to nudge forward slowly. Finally, the office driving gave up and told them she could go no further, not without hurting someone.

Veronique was out the door in an instant, but immediately waylaid by Lestrade. The officer who had been driving got out as well, yelling at the crowds to move, to make some sort of space for the police to get through, but it seemed a useless effort. John reached for the door, but Sherlock snagged his other wrist.

"Stay back here," he ordered and John shot him a look. For a moment, Sherlock focused on him fully, a sensation John was not at all used to when the consulting detective was working. When he wasn't, John was more than familiar with that feeling – it made up for all the times in which Sherlock was distracted by his cases.

"I need you to do this," Sherlock said quietly. "I need to know that you're safe. One of us has to be."

For a moment, John considered refusing, considered insisting that Sherlock not go in there alone, but then he gave himself another moment in which to think.

He nodded. A flicker of relief passed through Sherlock's eyes and he kissed John quickly. John hoped that wasn't the last time he'd do so.

Then he was out the door and gone.

* * *

Sherlock slipped through the crowds, ignoring Lestrade's voice behind him, unholstering his gun and releasing the safety. He moved past stunned and frightened motorists, at least one reporter who was enterprising enough to have arrived already, and police officers who were too busy dealing with the panic to stop him, let alone notice him.

He ducked through the hastily established tape barricade and was on the bridge, walking amongst empty cars. Sherlock moved carefully, focusing his eyes on the figures in the distance, standing on the bridge's parapet. Two men, about the same height, in the slanting afternoon sunlight. The day was partially overcast, so the sunlight was still weak, as it had been that morning at Goodnow's flat. It broke through the clouds here and there, dancing across the hoods of empty cars, across the water below.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, casting a quick glance at the river as he moved between two stopped and empty cabs. The tide was in; he could smell the salt in the water, and could see that the high water mark on the river's walls was obscured. Rain in the region of the upper Thames had swollen the water level as well. He checked for boats passing beneath the bridge, but the police appear to have been able to shut down some of the river traffic already. Despite himself, he was impressed by this.

They weren't in the center of the bridge, but far enough out to be over the water. Here, more and more of the cars were still full, terrified motorists trapped inside, unwilling to risk fleeing so close to the man with the gun. A handful of tourists on one of the city's iconic red double-decker tour buses watched him apprehensively as he stepped past. Someone took a picture.

Some of the other cars this far out were abandoned, though. Several people had decided that the risk was worth it, and Sherlock doubted Moriarty would be fussed with shooting anyone before his opponent arrived.

He came into view of Sam and Moriarty, standing between two abandoned cars, their doors still open. In one of them, he could hear the faint sounds of music coming from a forgotten iPod. Mozart. Disconcerting.

Moriarty smiled at him disarmingly, genuinely, as if greeting an old friend whom he had not seen in some time. Sherlock ignored him, other than aiming the gun at him, and focused on Sam. The constable looked rough – Moriarty had dispensed with the jacket Sam had been wearing in the antique shop's security feed, and now the younger man was clad only in a t-shirt, not enough for the cool October weather, sweats, and trainers. Whatever he'd been wearing over night before he'd been taken.

There was still the same red mark on his cheek, the fingerprint bruises on his neck, as well as what looked like bite marks. Sam met his eyes and Sherlock could see some answers there – and the fact that whatever drug Moriarty had given Sam was mostly worn off. His arms were scored with small cuts and bruises, and he had ligature marks around his wrists, caked with dry blood.

He also had his own gun pressed to his neck and Moriarty's other hand tangled in a fist in his hair, holding him in place. Sam was still, fear in his green eyes, but not terror, not this time, and Sherlock could see that he was focusing on breathing. He met the detective's eyes evenly and Sherlock saw an acknowledgement there, not a nod, not a blink, but recognition. He returned the same look.

"So glad you made it!" Moriarty called cheerfully. "I would have been rather heartbroken had you not. Did you see Mary Harper? Or perhaps her lovely husband?"

There was a subtle emphasis on 'lovely' and Sherlock wondered how much Moriarty had checked up on the Harpers after Mary had been institutionalized, but then immediately dismissed that thought as unimportant.

"Let him go," Sherlock said levelly, loud enough to be heard, but not hard, only firm.

Moriarty's grin grew.

"Oh, now, that would be too easy, wouldn't it?" he asked. "I've enjoyed my day with Sam, so. It would be a shame to end it now." He leaned forward somewhat, kissing Sam's ear and now Sherlock saw Sam flinch, his whole body tensing. It took him a long moment to get himself under control. Sherlock didn't move, didn't change his breathing, didn't blink.

"You got what you wanted," he said. "I'm here. You don't need Sam anymore."

"You're right," Moriarty said, pulling Sam's head back somewhat, exposing more obviously the bruises on his neck. "I did indeed get what I wanted. At least, in part. But no, Sherlock, I'm not finished yet."

"What else is there?" Sherlock asked, taking another step forward, but stopping when Moriarty pushed Sam's gun more firmly into Sam's neck, giving him a warning arch of an eyebrow.

"I want you to choose," Moriarty said simply. He glanced around, as if taking in the scenery, the view across the river, the Eye in the distance, Westminster Bridge even further upstream.

"Choose what?" Sherlock replied.

"Sam," Moriarty answered. "Or the rest of the people on this bridge."

"You have a police constable hostage," Sherlock said. "You won't ever get out of here."

Moriarty laughed.

"Odd, I would imagine that _because_ I have a police constable hostage, I would be able to get out of here," he replied. "But this isn't the choice I'm giving you. It isn't the decision of the police behind their barricades. It's yours."

A quick movement from Sam, his left hand, barely discernable. He made an arc with his fingers and thumb, then flashed four fingers.

C4.

Not on him, that was evident, and not on Moriarty, because the man would never be that foolish. Sherlock took a deep breath and got it. The car behind him, the one without the music coming from it, smelled of Sam's cologne. It was faint, unnoticeable without effort, but there.

He recalled John's words from the day John had found out about Sam. Sam watched him, green eyes calm, knowing, unafraid.

Sherlock adjusted his aim slightly, and chose.


	9. Chapter 9

The bullet hit him squarely in the forehead, and Sherlock stepped into the recoil, angling himself away from the car that smelled of Sam's cologne. James Moriarty jerked, surprise replacing the brash grin on his face, overbalanced backwards, and fell.

For a moment, just a moment, Sherlock thought Sam would be able to slip away, but he was pulled backwards, the dead man's hand still locked in his hair. The instant before Sam disappeared from view, Sherlock saw him wrench himself from Moriarty's death grip and arch his body to follow his line of sight toward the water.

Then there were screams.

And the sound of people running.

In the space of only a few breaths, someone was taking his gun from his unresisting hand, talking to him inanely, trying to get him to focus.

"The blue car behind me is rigged," Sherlock said.

More chaos.

The tone around him changed – not the motorists now desperate to get off the bridge, but the officers who were charging into the fray. Someone – two people – grabbed him by the shoulders and hustled him away from the car, from where Sam and Moriarty had plunged toward the Thames, past the now abandoned red double-decker bus. Someone was still talking to him, but the words made no sense, and he could focus only on moving, relying on instinct rather than vision to help dodge the forsaken vehicles that clogged the bridge. Someone snagged the back of his jacket, hauling him around some unseen obstacle, yelling to someone else.

A moment later, there were hands on his face and only when he saw John's brown eyes was he able to focus again. People were streaming past them, yelling, cursing, crying, working at cross-purposes with the police. The air was choked with the sounds of police and ambulance sirens, and the braying of bomb-sniffing dogs that had scented the C4 and were trying to do their job.

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, then teetered slightly when his husband pulled him into a rib-crushing hug. Dimly, he was grateful his ribs had mended months before, because he thought John might break them again. John pulled away and Sherlock realized he had not returned the embrace, and saw the doctor's eyes evaluating him quickly, clinically.

"Come on, let's get you out of here," he said and tugged him forward. Sherlock tried to focus, but he felt as though he were forgetting something.

When he heard someone shouting about divers, he remembered. Stopping John, he turned back towards the bridge, scanning it with his eyes. John wound his way round him, following his gaze, then looked back.

"Come on, Sherlock," John said gently.

There was nothing there.

Sherlock let himself be pulled away, glancing over his shoulder one last time, then Lestrade was upon them, cursing a blue streak at him and Sherlock swayed slightly, stunned. John cursed back, but his voice was calmer, as if the swearing was just to keep the inspector moving with them.

_Curious_, Sherlock thought.

Someone was yelling at him in French. It was momentarily incomprehensible, then John snapped:

"Shut up!"

And it ceased. Sherlock was lead past a knot of people crowded around a news reporter – were they really getting their news from the reporter? Weren't they here? Didn't they just see what had happened?

John shouldered his way to an ambulance, displacing whoever was there previously, and roping the two paramedics into helping him. They settled Sherlock on the back, and a light was flashed into his eyes, which made him wince and pull back.

"Reactions are pretty good," someone said.

"He's in shock," said a more familiar voice. John.

He was in shock? Was he injured? He didn't feel injured. Had something happened? Sherlock tried to focus, but it was difficult.

Someone was arguing now, about police procedure and discharging a firearm and questions. John was arguing back, his voice low, in the way Sherlock knew meant whomever he was arguing was going to lose. He wanted to point this out, but seemed to lack the energy. John was insisting something about going home, needing a car, which Sherlock thought would be difficult. If this bridge was at a standstill during rush hour, what would the others be like? Hell, most likely.

The other person – Lestrade, it was Lestrade – was trying to get John to see reason from his point of view, needing to keep Sherlock there, to speak to him, to establish what had happened.

Someone else settled a blanket around his shoulders. Sherlock glanced up and saw a young woman smiling warmly at him, patting him on the upper arm. She seemed unconcerned about the argument that was taking place, and smelled pleasant, like dryer sheets.

"Here," she said, pressing something into his hand. "Take these."

"Absolutely not," he replied automatically, returning them firmly. Pills from a stranger? Mycroft would kill him.

John detached himself from the argument, leaving Lestrade alone, unable to continue, because he could not very well argue with himself. Sherlock heard someone yelling about boat traffic now, and more about divers and refocused. He stood up, straining to see above the crowd, which had swelled in size like a wave.

"John, Sam," he said as John gripped him by the shoulders, sitting him back down.

"They're looking," John assured him, but didn't meet his eyes, glancing instead at the female paramedic. "Sherlock, you need to take these."

"No," Sherlock said. He pulled the blanket closer around him and wondered if he were allowed to keep it. It was quite warm. And soft.

_You know, you just thought that. You really did_, some part of his mind told him. He blinked, looking up at John, then frowned.

_Fuzzy blankets, Sherlock?_ he asked himself. _Really?_

"What is it?" he asked John.

"Secobarbital," John said. "It's a mild sedative. It won't hurt you."

"But I'm not injured," Sherlock replied reasonably. Then he hesitated, but no, he was right.

"You just shot someone," John said, meeting his eyes. Sherlock wondered if he'd ever noticed how warm John's eyes were before. He didn't say that Sherlock had just watched a friend plunge to his death. Had he?

"Am I allowed to have a cigarette?" he enquired.

"What? No, you most certainly are not!" John retorted.

"Oh." He felt slightly let down, as if this weren't quite fair. John put the pills in his hand and gave him a small cup of water the female paramedic had obtained for him.

"Take them," John said. "Doctor's orders."

Sherlock obeyed, knocking back the two pills and then evaluating himself. He still felt the same. He told this to John, who rolled his eyes inexplicably.

"Yes, it takes more than half a second to take effect. You need to go home."

He resumed whatever argument he'd been having with Lestrade, but this time, he got Sherlock up and steered him through the crowds toward a waiting police car. The inspector was haranguing them most of the way, but seemed to realize he'd lost the argument, and began shouting at people to clear the way.

"I'll bring him in tomorrow," John said. "Keep me updated."

"I will," Lestrade promised and John helped settle Sherlock into the back of the car. The slamming of the door seemed unreasonably loud. A police officer slipped into the front and began to drive them, slowly, through the crowds and stopped cars, having to stop often and yell people out of their way. Sherlock was impressed by her voice – she was getting good results. But it was still slow going.

John bundled Sherlock to him and the younger man rested his head against John's shoulder, watching vaguely out the front window. After what felt like an eternity, they cleared the snarl of onlookers, incoming news reporters, police officers, vehicles, and others attempting to leave the scene. The policewoman cursed with feeling when their vehicle finally got free, but it took some time to get back to Baker Street, because of the time of day and the delays on all the other bridges.

When they arrived, John thanked the woman and herded Sherlock out, fending off Mrs. Hudson, who had appeared in the doorway and seemed distressed. He led Sherlock up the stairs and into their flat, which the younger man noted was quite messy – he'd really have to speak to John about that. Where had all of this stuff come from?

John took him to the bedroom and undressed him quickly, efficiently, all business. Vaguely, Sherlock thought this was a pity. But he wasn't given much time to think about it before he was shuffled into cotton trousers and a t-shirt and settled into the bed. He wondered where the blanket was that the paramedic had given him. When he asked, John replied:

"You're bloody kidding, right?"

Sherlock gave him a confused look and repeated the question. John hauled himself off the bed and reappeared a moment later, spreading the blanket over Sherlock, who snuggled down into it, wrapping an arm around John's waist and burrowing his face into John's hip.

A moment later, he felt John's hand on the back of his head, fingers laced into his hair, and Sherlock relaxed completely. John's thumb moved gently, rhythmically, against his scalp and Sherlock closed his eyes.

The sensation anchored him the rest of the night, unceasing save for one or two times when he felt John dislodge himself, only to return to the bed within a few minutes. Sherlock felt as though he were floating, moving between misty and fragmented moments, all the while aware of John's touch. At one point, he drifted half awake to hear a disembodied voice in their room. It was somewhat familiar, female, and he thought it was odd that there was a woman in their room, but the voice was far away. On speaker on the phone.

"Johnny, if this Moriarty isn't a corpse, I will surrender my medical license," Tricia Remsen said. "And eat my hat."

"Didn't know you had a hat," John commented.

"Well, I'll buy one and eat it. In my professional opinion, he is absolutely and irrevocably dead."

"Good," John sighed and there was relief in his voice Sherlock had never heard before. "Any other news?"

"Nothing yet. I'll let you know."

Sherlock drifted off again, missing the rest of the conversation, if there were any more. He nestled down further, half his face warm against John's hip and thigh, and slept. And did not dream.

* * *

He awoke early in the morning, turning his head up to find John still awake, still stroking his head, in the pre-dawn light. A glance at the clock told him it was a little after six in the morning, the time when John normally got up and Sherlock consented to drag himself out of bed to make breakfast for the two of them.

John smiled down at him, his eyes rimmed with dark circles and reddened with fatigue. Sherlock frowned.

"Did you not sleep?" he asked.

"I'm all right," John replied by way of not at all answering the question. He yawned, putting lie to his statement.

"John," Sherlock said. "You should have slept. You need to work."

John gave him a look that indicated that he, John, thought that Sherlock was crazy.

"My detective husband was involved in the shooting death of one of London's most notorious criminals," he said. "It merits the day off."

Sherlock considered that.

"Then you should sleep," he said.

"No," John said, yawning again. "I'll be fine after a shower and some breakfast. Cooking is still your job."

When John nodded off against Sherlock's chest in the shower, Sherlock got him out, dried him off as best he could, wrapped him in the old blue bathrobe and steered him back down the hall.

"I'm fine," John muttered, half asleep.

"Oh yes," Sherlock said wryly. "I can see that, quite clearly."

He tucked the doctor into bed, listening to one more muttered protest before John was fast asleep. Sherlock turned off John's mobile and scoped up his own, padding into the kitchen and putting on a very strong pot of coffee. He was about to make something for himself to eat when a thought struck him. He rummaged around for a paper and pen, then scribbled "John is sleeping" on the paper before descending the stairs silently, so as not to alert Mrs. Hudson as to his presence. He opened the door, stuck the sign on with a piece of tape so that people – Mycroft – would not bother him, and then darted back up to the flat.

While cooking, he began thumbing through the news reports on the phone. He set his plate on the table and turned on his laptop, heading for the BBC news pages for London. The story was everywhere, splashed across all of the headlines, with sound bites available from everyone who thought they were important to the case. Sherlock turned the telly on to BBC One, keeping the volume low, letting the news stream past him.

He kept his phone on, but put it on vibrate. Sometime around nine in the morning, with John still fast asleep, the news reports began shifting from looking for Sam Waters to looking for Sam Waters' body. Sherlock checked his phone each time it buzzed, but ignored all the calls, waiting with increasing resignation for the call from Veronique that never came.


	10. Epilogue

The text that came on December sixth read simply:

_Venez_.

Sherlock left off what he was doing without even thinking about it, grabbing his scarf and tossing his coat over his shoulders as he clattered down the stairs into the cold December air. Already, the short day was drawing to a close, and it was only just past mid-afternoon. There was a breeze, adding a sting to the chilly air, and he hailed a cab, then bundled his hands into his pockets, huffing frozen puffs of steam from his lips.

_When he said he didn't want to go the funeral, John stopped talking to him for a whole day. It was the first time John had done this – normally when they had a row, John was more than willing to speak, sometimes too much. He had never frozen Sherlock out before. _

_The worst part was not understanding it._

_He pressed until finally John exploded, subjecting Sherlock to a rant about the responsibilities of being a human being, the nature of friendship, even friendship between a self-described sociopath and an undercover international agent. He argued that even though neither of them knew the person Sam Waters had been before he'd become Sam Waters, and even though he and Sherlock had set up a friendship to trap Moriarty, they'd still been mates. He railed against selfishness, against idiocy, against the unfairness of the universe in general and of the River Thames in specific._

_When he paused for breath, Sherlock said:_

"_I don't think he's dead."_

_John stopped short, his tirade derailed._

"_What do you mean?"_

"_I mean I don't think he's dead, John. It's not a confusing statement."_

"_Sherlock, he fell off the bloody Waterloo Bridge."_

_Sherlock paused, then shook his head. No, John hadn't been there, not up close._

"_No," he corrected. "He dove."_

_John stared at him as though he might be mad. It was a look Sherlock was used to._

"_What on Earth are you talking about?"_

"_He turned the fall into a dive," Sherlock said simply._

_Sam, arching backwards, following his line of sight toward the water._

_They had never found any trace of him._

"_That's bloody insane, Sherlock!" John said. "No one could survive that fall!"_

"_People have," Sherlock replied. "The tide was in, the river was high from the rain. They were above the water, and the boat traffic had been halted. If he were lucky, he may have survived."_

"_Lucky?" John asked. "That wouldn't be luck, that would be a miracle!"_

_Sherlock shrugged._

"_A miracle, then, if that's what you need to call it. But they never found him. And they found Moriarty within two hours."_

"_Yes, but-" John started, then stopped, putting a hand on his forehead, giving Sherlock a disbelieving look._

"_You can't find a body if there's no body to find," Sherlock pointed out._

"_Veronique would have called us," John protested._

"_Why?" Sherlock asked. "She has no reason to. Her job is to keep Sam safe, not to provide us with information. She works for Interpol, not the Metro police, so she has no responsibilities to them. Nor to us."_

_John stared at him._

"_But why would they bother covering it up?" he asked._

_Sherlock shrugged again._

"_He's an undercover agent."_

"_But Moriarty's dead. He'd have no reason to go back under cover."_

"_No reason we know about, but it's not as though this is the only country in which Interpol operates. It is Interpol for a reason." Sherlock paused. "Besides, if you were Sam, would you want to come back to life to face everyone you worked with, knowing what Moriarty did to him?"_

_John opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, still staring at Sherlock._

"_You really believe that, don't you? You really think he's alive."_

"_If I didn't believe it, why would I say it?"_

_John sighed, rubbing his hand over his lips and chin. His eyes slid away for a moment and he was silent, then he nodded and looked back._

"_Well if he really is alive, as you say, then we definitely have to go to the funeral. Our absence would be noted. If Interpol's shifted him somewhere else under a different name, then we'd best not draw attention to it."_

_Sherlock could tell John still didn't believe him, but let the matter drop. He agreed with John on that last point anyway._

The funeral had been immense, to say the least. It seemed that every available police officer had turned out, as well as members of the media, who could not be kept away, Sam's neighbours, and several Interpol officers. Veronique had been among them, her eyes bright with unshed tears, her jaw set during the service. It had been the only thing that had shaken Sherlock's belief that Sam was still alive.

She hadn't spoken to him and he had not attempted to speak to her. He sat silently through the whole service with Lestrade and John and Sam Waters' former CO from the Charing Cross Station. He had expected animosity, and it came from some quarters, but it was by and large absent. James Moriarty was the focus of responsibility here, even though Sherlock had pulled the trigger. It had been to stop one of the worst criminals in recent London history.

Sam Waters was getting a hero's send off.

Sherlock wondered if he still personally disbelieved in heroes.

He was unable to answer that question with any amount of satisfaction.

The cemetery was largely deserted when Sherlock arrived, given the temperature outside and the lateness of the day. The sun was already nudging toward the horizon, casting long shadows from the tombstones. Part of Sherlock, a large part, considered all of this so very unnecessary. The constant bafflement of an atheist in the face of an afterlife, or at least the belief in one. Fresh flowers adorned many of the graves, and a few of the markers were carefully swept clear of the light snow that had recently fallen.

He followed a path he knew by heart, even though he'd only been there once. He would never tell John that he walked this path in his dreams some nights, sometimes with Sam, conversing about matters he couldn't recall when he awoke. Always, Sam seemed at ease, and bore none of the bruises or cuts Moriarty had inflicted on him. It was, Sherlock thought, a Sam that had never really existed, because he had never been without the shadows kept so carefully concealed. Or perhaps it was the way he'd seen Sam, before learning the truth about him.

Veronique was waiting for him beside Sam's grave, dressed all in black as seemed to be her habit. Her black hair was kept down under a stylish black knit toque, and she was covered against the English cold by a long black wool coat and a black scarf. Her hair was actually difficult to distinguish, being the same colour. She met his eyes when he approached, but he could not read anything in them, which was both impressive and frustrating. Out of everyone he'd ever known, Veronique was the only one whose expression gave nothing away, at least nothing she did not want someone else to take.

"_Bonjour_," Sherlock said, nodding at her.

Her lips twitched upwards.

"_Bonjour, Sherloque,_" she replied.

He stopped on the other side the grave, which no longer looked fresh, but was half buried in recent flowers. The police were not about to forget one of their own, even after they'd found out he was not, strictly speaking, one of their own.

Sherlock drew a deep breath. Veronique did not smell like cigarette smoke, which was unusual for her in London. Instead, she smelled like aeroplanes.

And hospital disinfectant. Strongly so.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her and she withdrew something from the black shoulder bag that was held loosely under her left arm. He gave her a questioning look, accepting the manila folder.

"_Il avait insisté_," she said. _He insisted._

Before Sherlock could flip it open, she pulled two more things from her bag and pressed them into his palm, closing his gloved fingers over them.

"_Au revoir_," she said with a faint smile that suggested she thought she may actually see him again. He wondered if he'd see her, however. "_Joyeux noel_ to you and John."

With that, she walked away, tucking her hands into her pockets, her breath trailing behind her as she picked her careful way through the snow on the path. Sherlock watched until she was receding, then flipped open the folder quickly.

The papers inside were stamped with the Interpol seal, but he noticed that second.

The picture of a young man – not as young as he'd been once, perhaps – smiled back out at him. Short, non-descript medium brown hair, but the same distinctive green eyes that did not lend themselves to easy disguise. There were no marks on his face or neck, but the photo was clearly doctored, although doctored properly.

Yves Phillipe Bessette, twenty-eight, from Lille, France. Currently on extended medical leave in Nice. No reason for the leave listed, but one was scarcely needed, not here.

At the bottom, a handwritten note:

_Now there really _is_ tomorrow. Something to look forward to. Thank you. SW._

Sherlock opened his other hand. Nestled in his glove was a small clear vial of pale amber liquid and a lighter.

He smiled.

He unstopped the vial and inhaled the musky vanilla scent of the cologne he'd asked Sam to wear, closing his eyes and letting the strongest sense associated with memory take his mind for a moment. Then he restoppered it and bent down, burying the vial in the dirt beneath the flowers. He flicked the lighter on, letting the folder and its contents burn.

He left the ashes to fall over the grave that belonged to no one.

Then Sherlock pitched the lighter hard over arm, as far as he could. He could not quite see where it fell back to the ground.

Humming, he pulled out his phone and turned away from the grave and the flowers, ringing John's number. It was almost closing time at the clinic by now. Tomorrow was their first anniversary and Sherlock had Big Plans, made even better by the fact that he was certain John expected him to forget. But today was still today.

"I'm a very busy and important doctor," John answered. "How can I help you?"

Sherlock grinned to himself.

"I'm heading to the pub," he replied. "Fancy meeting for a drink?"

(**Fin**)


End file.
